


Devil Like Me

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, Come Marking, Curse Breaking, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Forced Pregnancy, Fuck Or Die, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Magic, Minor Injuries, Monsters, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Out of Character, Pet Names, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Romance, Smut, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Travel, Triss is the Best, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence, Vomiting, Witch Curses, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witches, Yennefer is Mean in This One, this started as a one shot, witcher stamina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 70,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jaskier requires extra protection, and Geralt could use your healing skills. You begin to travel with the men for coin. From the start, your relationship with Geralt is physical, but one night, things change drastically when he returns from a hunt as a different man. And they only get dramatically crazier from there. Can you weather the storm of a curse that binds you together and find out if your feelings are real, or magic? Will Yennefer get what she wants? Will Jaskier get laid a bunch? Will I stop asking rhetorical questions?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 132
Kudos: 626





	1. Part One - The Witch

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for this to be a one-shot. And then someone asked if the curse has 'after effects', and things got way out of hand. This is my longest multi-chapter, and it sort of goes all over the place; into the games, the books, the show, but ultimately it's very out of character and very non-canon. If you wanna stay up to date with my nonsense/drabble etc, I can be found on tumblr as witchernonsense. Enjoy!

You’d been travelling with Jaskier and Geralt for a few months now. It felt like an age, but paradoxically also as though it was yesterday that the two men had tripped across you in an inn – in Jaskier’s case, quite literally – and the bard had gotten to talking and gesticulating. A dozen pints of ale later, he’d managed to ascertain that you were a sword-sell with medical training, drifting from job to job. A two-for-one deal, as Jaskier had put it. Geralt had barely participated during the conversation, although he did indulge deeply in drink, and you often felt the weight of his precious-metal gaze upon you.

That was the first night you’d found yourself tangled in the Witcher’s sheets, the both of you intoxicated and greedy, frantic in the knowledge that the one-night tryst could be as devious and as debauched as you wanted it to be, because you barely knew each other’s names.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, you were still unsure – when the morning broke and Jaskier came swanning into your room, with you snoring open-mouthed upon Geralt’s chest, you’d found yourself a new job.

“It’s a perfect idea!” The bard explained with enthusiasm, placing a tray with breakfast on the bedside table as he took to pacing. There was a small posy in a vase between the plates, and you suspected it hadn’t been the innkeeper’s doing. “You’re a healer, and Geralt gets stabbed all the time.” The Witcher grunted beneath you. “What? You _do._ And I’m, well I’m a bard. I write about the stabbings. I don’t get stabbed. And I can’t write the songs if I’m not there to witness the story. But if I _witness_ the story, the likelihood of my getting _stabbed_ increases quite–”

“Jaskier,” You interrupted him, your dry mouth evidence of your hangover, and of last night’s sweaty activity, “I get it. You want a bodyguard and a healer.” Reaching over Geralt’s chest, you grabbed a glass of icewater and began to down it.

“I’ll travel with you.” You accepted, at the exact same time that Geralt said, “I don’t need a healer.”

“Oh really?” Snarkily, you lifted the sheet and poked at an injury on his thigh that was fresh. He hissed. “Because you definitely sutured that yourself, and you _definitely_ suck at it.” Raising your eyes, you noted Jaskier smirking. Apparently the bard didn’t care that you were both naked, which suited you just fine; you are a bit shameless (your mother would have said that was why you were in the ‘man’s’ profession you were in) and following the Witcher would have meant Jaskier had seen him in various states of undress. The dynamic felt comfortable somehow.

“I don’t suck at it.” Geralt rumbled, but you knew he was relenting. “She can ride with us. But as _your_ guard, because the Gods know I can’t watch your stupid ass all the time.”

Jaskier gasped as if mortally wounded, and put a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know that any danger I’ve been in has been because of your example–”

“Oh really?” Geralt interjected, “You basically _tap-danced_ over that grave hag’s territorial border, even though I told you–”

“Shut uu _uup._ ” You overruled both of them, clambering over Geralt’s massive frame in order to have at the bacon, “You can argue later when I don’t feel like my head is going to explode.”

And they did. Oh Gods, it was like escorting a married couple, sans any romance; whilst most of the musing and bickering was courtesy of Jaskier, the man certainly knew how to push the Witcher’s buttons. It was amusing for a couple of weeks. After that, you resorted to idle threats, and after that, more active threats.

“Jaskier, shut it, or I’ll let the next warg we encounter bite your playing arm.”

“Geralt, stop punching him in the side, or I won’t visit your tent for a week.”

The interest between yourself and the Witcher hadn’t died down after that night at the inn; most evenings, you found carnal comfort in one another, and fell asleep entwined. As it got colder, sometimes you’d wake up to find Jaskier spooning you, too, and in honesty, you didn’t really mind. He was always clothed, and as a healer, you knew the power of human contact. You had Geralt; Jaskier had his lute, and a litany of complaints about you and Geralt, mainly centred around the fact that he’d hired you, therefore you should share _his_ bed. This never got a rise from Geralt, and in time you realised it was most likely because Jaskier talked a lot of talk about women, but every time you were in a new town, it was the men his eyes strayed to in the inns.

All of this is a reflection now, as you sit before a dwindling fire, twilight beginning to sneak across the afternoon sky, painting the low early summer clouds in shades of pastel. You are guarding the campsite; it is Jaskier’s turn to hunt enough dry kindling to last the evening, and Geralt has gone off into the forest to slay a handful of drowners that have been picking off travellers that stray too close to the lake. It’s a small-time job that pays a small bounty from the nearby village, but any coin is welcome, and as it is easy work, you feel no need to shadow him. Jaskier does have a tendency to fall into trouble – as Geralt had once warned you – but you’ve given him strict instructions, and really, you just want a bit of time to yourself.

The sound of Geralt’s creaking armour behind you is comforting, and you glance over your shoulder to welcome the Witcher back. “Hey, you. Once we get this fire going again, I’ll roast those hares we caught…” Trailing off, you watch the pale-haired man pace away from you and begin to remove his leathers robotically. He hasn’t looked at you. The entirety of his body is tense. “…Jaskier is gathering wood…” You continue your update, as you furrow your brow. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

No response.

He can keep to himself, certainly, but this is odd. Considering Jaskier’s absence, and the ease of Geralt’s task, you’d usually be sitting on his face by now, making use of your bard-free time. And even if he didn’t feel like that, he’d always acknowledge your words with one of his grunts (secretly, you held contests with Jaskier to see who could mimic the _hmmm_ better).

“Geralt?” You try again, standing up. He’s still removing his armour, but he doesn’t stop there; next it’s his boots, and then he’s unlacing his shirt. “Uuuhh. It’s not yet nightfall. Are you _that_ tired?”

It’s like conversing with a wall; he tugs the cloth over his head, the flex of his muscles hard on his back, and begins to untie his breeches. Confused, worried, you touch his arm.

He whips around like a striking snake, gripping your wrist in an iron vice, and you see the wildness in his golden gaze; with the ember-light hitting them, they are wolf-like, and his pupils have constricted to pin-pricks. Around his eyes, faint red veins glow eerily. With your jaw slack, you stare, and it becomes quite clear: _Geralt isn’t home._

“Okay, what happened, what bit you,” You babble, trying to ignore the pressure at your wrist as he refuses to let go, scanning his bare torso for marks or scratches. Besides the old scars, you can’t see anything. _Damn it!_ “Geralt, you’re under the influence of something. I don’t know what, but can you show me which of your weird vials of nonsense will help? Can you point to something? _Geralt?_ ”

He’s not listening, or he’s ignoring you, those unearthly eyes roving your form as though he’s never seen you before in his life; as though he is a man starving on the beach of a deserted island, and you are a perfectly prepared meal washed ashore. His nostrils flare, and he takes a step closer to you, using his other hand to grab your waist and pull you to him. You feel his hardness press into your abdomen, and it’s hot and throbbing with his pulse – too fast for him, for a Witcher – and your concern turns to a very strange mixture of fear and arousal.

Moving deliberately, he runs his open mouth up your neck, drawing in a deep breath of you, pausing at your ear as he shudders bodily against you, the hot pant of his breath making your knees feel weak. He’s scenting you as if you are an animal – or prey.

“Mine.” He finally speaks, but his voice is a slate-slide of stone, possessive. His hand at your waist grips a little tighter, and you feel your heartbeat begin to skip in your chest.

“Yes, yours.” You agree, _sotto voce_ , telling yourself that you’re hoping to placate him so you can figure out what is wrong with him, but when you shift slightly, you can feel how wet your cunt is. He pulls away to stare at you, pearl-teeth pinched tightly together in a baring snarl, his nostrils flared. He can smell you.

With a movement so quick it makes you dizzy, he spins you, and presses you back into his chest. His cock is free from the laces of his breeches, and he grinds it against your clothed ass obscenely, palming your tits through the leather of your vest. A snarl runs the length of his lungs, beginning as a low rumble, and with the ease of a man strong enough to break tree-limbs with his bare hands, he tears your vest and your undershirt away in two violent tugs, snapping his teeth at the side of your face. Your breasts bounce free and you make a short cry that tapers into a moan as he cups them, kneading the flesh, expertly rolling your pebbled nipples until you mewl at the sensation.

“Geralt,” You gasp, some sort of clarity attempting to make itself known in the foggy lust of your brain, “There’s something wrong with you— _oh!_ ” One of his hands slides directly into your pants and cups your cunt roughly, his middle finger pressing the button of your clit with enough pressure to make you buck forward. He traps your movement with his other arm, circling your waist, still making that low sound in the back of his throat.

“Mine.” He hisses again, plunging two thick fingers into your soaking pussy, a quick piston that has you squeezing your legs together and rolling your eyes back. “Mine, mine. My little pet,” His voice is the low thunder of an incoming storm, as he sucks at the flesh of your neck. He’s begun to pant as heavily as you. “My _whore._ My toy. **Mine.** ”

You’ve never belonged to any man in your whole life, but in that moment, you can’t find logic to argue. _He’s sick!_ Your brain is screaming, but your body is louder. “Unh _hhhh_ ,” You whine, as he withdraws his fingers and jerks your breeches open with the sound of cloth tearing. He shoves them down your legs to pool at your knees, and then in the next heartbeat, he’s pushing you to the ground, all-fours, the trousers restricting the amount you can spread your legs. You look up at him, shuddering, and he’s a gloriously beautiful sight; his huge cock is weeping precome in sticky rivers, throbbing thickly in readiness, and you can see the definition of all of his musculature in the dominating tenseness of his posture. You bite your lower lip hard enough to taste salt and iron. He smells that, too.

With a sound halfway between a snarl and a hiss, he’s upon you, shoving your upper body into the scratch of the dirty ground. You feel the fallen bark and crisp autumn leaves clawing at your skin, until he pushes again, and you forget the mild discomfort. His other hand has your waist, exactly where he was grabbing at you earlier, impressing further bruises into your skin as he jerks your body roughly, forcing you to present your slickened cunt, puffy and pleading between your legs. You open and close your mouth to say something, but you can only manage a squeak, and a slight arch of your lower back, a submissive invitation. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Keeping you pinned, he lines his cockhead perfectly with your entrance and takes you with a smooth thrust of his hips, fully impaling you, the movement swift and remorseless. Your trapped legs only make the position tighter for both of you, and your wail entwines with his gruff cursing as you are both shocked by sensation. He gives you no time to adjust, for this is no lover’s tangle; in moments he’s rutting you with fervour, the sound of his balls slapping your dripping pussy loud and lewd, his sac hitting your flushed clit every time he bottoms out. There is no word for him but _feral_ ; he fucks you into the ground, and the pressure his hand puts on your back makes it hard for you to catch your breath. You can only huff and squeak and try to rock back against him as best you can as he pistons behind you, teeth snapping at air, his divine body sweat-soaked as he groans out his pleasure.

It’s so good, too good; even under whatever poison or corruption that has taken him, he knows your body, thrusting at an angle that has his flared head punishing your g-spot, and the absolute power-fuck has you mindless, open-mouthed like the whore he proclaimed you to be, drool trickling from the corner of your mouth. “Mine!” He insists again, releasing your back to fist his hand in your hair and draw you closer, the pornographic curve of your spine obscene, and you don’t answer him vocally; your cunt collapses in vice-like clenches of rhythmic spasm as you come, the rush of oxygen he has allowed you from releasing your back making you delirious as you _howl_ , your pussy nearly pushing him from your body with the strength of your orgasm, a wash of your juices soaking his balls and dripping down his legs.

This pleases him greatly, and he gruffly grunts through the fire that consumes you, cocky enough – even in this circumstance – to rock the blunt head of his cock against your hypersensitive clit until you peak again, jerking and thrashing beneath him, clawing at the ground as though you might find a handhold to endure the bliss that wracks you.

He pushes himself back into you when you are no longer screaming, cursing and moaning at the ridiculously tight pulse of your post-orgasmic walls; were you not so wet, coupling might have been an impossibility. “Gonna come in you, so full. Then you’ll be mine. **Mine.** ” His voice is at your ear as he roughly tugs your pants down and spreads your legs wide, lowering himself, keeping your ass lifted with one thick forearm, the skin-on-skin contact intimate and allowing for his words to purr in your ear. “Fill you up so _fuckin’_ deep, own you, little pet,” The dirty words drip from his lips, and match his low, short thrusting. “Mine, mine– _mhh_ , only _mine_.” You want to tell him _yes,_ Gods, only _his_ , but your voice cracks, and your tongue is heavy. You fear you might go insane.

“Chose such a good whore, such a _good_ pet,” He continues, the steady rock slowing somewhat; his dick is twitching inside you, and you can feel every movement against your fuck-roughened walls. “So hot for me so easily, _hnn._ So wet. Always wet for me. Know you are. I smell it.”

“Y-yes!” You finally manage to squeak out, and the affirmation earns you a pleased growl, “Yo-yours. _Yours,_ fuck, _Gods._ ” The babble is scratchy from your bliss-screams, and you can feel your thighs quiver beneath him. If he keeps up the pace, you’ll come again. He knows this. He feels it in every velvet-smooth contraction.

“ _ **Give me what I want.**_ ” He commands darkly, and there’s nothing you can do but comply; your third orgasm in this position begins in a much gentler way, but with his persistent rocking, it builds on itself until you’re not sure it’ll ever end, quaking under him, keening and feversome; it might have been a minute, it might have been five, but he finally joins you in release, thrusting his cock as deep as he possibly can inside you as the jerking throb begins, his come spilling from the reddened tip of him in copious ribbons, filling you as he promised. He pants and trembles above you, the muscles of his abdomen clenching as he strives to get deeper, an impossibility; he’s wild of eye and the sounds he’s making are pure primal, like he truly is mating with you, his balls drawn up tight to his body as the seed begins to drip hotly down your cunt, flowing back out of you, even as he still comes. Your well-fucked pussy coaxes him, unbidden, drawing this magic orgasm out until he’s pulsing but spent, still hilted deep within you, his moaning breath heaving from him as he looms over you protectively, jealous eyes on the darkening forest as if something might challenge his dominion.

You can’t move – not because his weight is upon you, but because you’re so high on the whole experience that you’re not sure your muscles work anymore. Parts of your body ache, but you ignore them; whatever damage has been done was so worth it.

“Mine.” He reiterates, nuzzling your crown with his face, and you murmur in response. “Mine, my pet.”

It’s about then that you realise that he hasn’t softened at all, and he’s begun to move again; he still needs to fuck, and you’re not sure how much you can take. “Geralt–” You protest, but he runs his mouth along your jaw and thrusts once, causing a flood of his come to leak from you.

“ **Mine.** ”

“Are you serious?” Another voice trills into existence, and Geralt snaps his head around to regard Jaskier, who has three neat bundles of kindling. “I’m not gone an hour, and you two can’t wait for– ohh, ho. Y/N, you’re _naughty._ ”

Geralt snarls at the bard, flexing, daring him to come closer with slitted eyes that are all kinds of danger. You look up from your position, fucked near-stupid, but coherent enough to warn Jaskier. “Geralt, he returned like this— _nngh!_ ” The Witcher twitches his hips forward as if to remind you of him, “And I don’t… I can’t…”

“It’s a hex, Y/N. Haven’t you seen one before?” With no care for Geralt’s vocal, guttural warnings, he strides over to the Witcher’s pack, and pulls out a vial of clear liquid. He does give the other man a wide berth, which is wise, as Geralt tries to swipe at him. “Alright, alright, crazy-man! Calm down. Now where is… ah!” You cannot see from where you are, but Jaskier has located a triangle of red dots on Geralt’s lower back. He flicks droplets from the vial from a distance, wetting the mark, and the Witcher withdraws from you quickly, howling, contorting in what looks like pain, shrinking in on himself.

You’re left rather exposed on the ground, what with your come-covered legs and your torn clothing, and Jaskier clears his throat, artfully draping a cloth over your ass. He does not seem worried that Geralt is fetal on the ground.

“Thanks.” You manage, blinking blearily, finding the strength to push yourself from the dirt so you’re not face-down in the leaves. You wince, choosing to sit for the moment, and take the flask of water that Jaskier offers, as he continues to busy himself, stoking the flames and getting the campfire back to a comfortable warmth. “Um, a hex…?”

“If I didn’t know better, Y/N, I’d have presumed you were taking _advantage_ of his state, and intended to cure him when you’d… had your fun.” He grins, and you stare at him dumbly. “Apparently he crossed a witch in the forest. Don’t know what he did, or the specifics of it, but he pissed her right off, I do know that.” As if on cue, Geralt moans. “They always leave marks. Usually on the torso, sometimes on the neck. Hexes born from anger are usually red.”

“I take it this isn’t the first witch he’s pissed off, then.” You muse, sipping gratefully at the water. Glancing at Geralt, you wince. “Is he… going to be okay? Did I make it worse?”

“He’ll be fine in five minutes.” Jaskier makes a gesture as if you were discussing the weather, “And no, you probably relieved some of the discomfort for him. I mean, it would have been a lot quicker to use his weird… potion-y cure… thing.” He shrugs and you try to tug your vest closed. It is mangled.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice captures both of your attentions, and you go to move by his side, pulling the cloth ‘round your waist like a makeshift skirt. “Is she– did I– tell me she’s okay–”

“She’s fine, Ger.” Jaskier sing-songs, “Maybe the best fuck she’s ever had, I dunno.”

You shoot Jaskier a _look_ , and he shrugs, grinning. Geralt opens his eyes, and you’re relieved to see they have returned to normal. Well, normal for a Witcher. The webbing of veins has vanished.

“Y/N,” He grinds out your name, pushing himself up with a grunt, his handsome features haunted. “I should have paid more attention, should have felt the presence of the witch. The-the drowners, she was keeping them as pets of sorts – they’d take victims, and she’d… take their belongings. I didn’t even know she was _there_ until–” His fists clench, and he lowers his head, “Until I couldn’t control myself anymore. I’m _so sorry._ ”

“Hey, now.” You soothe, cupping his cheek with your hand, “I’m not sorry. I mean, if Jaskier hadn’t come back, I might have been sorry, or you might have been stabbed, but _honestly?_ Does this witch take requests?” You smile, but he does not; instead, he’s fixating on your wrist, where dark bruises have blossomed like violets. He looks sick.

“I’ve hurt you.” He murmurs, and traces the outline of his own fingerprints on your wrist, focusing next on your hips, the scratches on your chest, and eventually discovering your bruised back. “I’ll take you to the next village, to the healer. I’ll ride through the night–”

“No.” You stop him, firmly, “I am bruised, Geralt, that is all. I’ve had worse. You’ve seen me take worse damage. This is nothing.” Trying to get him to look at you, to feel the truth of your words, you brush your thumbs on his cheekbones. “Hey, look at me? I’m _fine._ ”

“The hex draws out a trait you possess and amplifies it. It knows what you’re ashamed of. What you don’t want to be. It turns you into that.” The whisper is so low you barely catch it, and it confuses you.

“What, it turns you into a sex god? Why are you ashamed of that?” _Look at me! y_ ou want to scream, but instead you keep your voice light and playful.

“It turned me into an animal. Into a… monster.” The weight of his gaze clicks with your own briefly, before it scatters away again like a frightened ship-rat, and you see the shame and torture etched all over his features. Behind you, Jaskier is silent, dutifully preparing food, aware that this conversation is not meant for him.

You know you can’t convince him those words aren’t true. He believes them too strongly. So instead, you curl your arms around his shoulders, raise yourself to your knees, and press a kiss into his forehead. “…Mine.” You whisper, into the shock of his hair, running your hand in a soothing circle on his upper back. “Mine, mine, _mine._ ” When you sit back down, he’s finally staring at you, and he looks bewildered. You offer a smile, sincere. “If you’re a monster, then you are **my** monster.”

He grunts, that delightful _hmmm_ noise that you’ve missed, and he finally softens, drawing you into his chest in a hug; it’s delicate, but it’s grateful. Bowing to rest his forehead against your shoulder, he sighs.

“…Yours.”


	2. Part Two - Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one night experience, or something... deeper? Things are stilted and strange with Geralt, and you must find out why.

Things hadn’t been quite the same after the hex. You supposed it was wishful thinking to presume they would be, after the admission of Geralt’s guilty conscience – which you knew few were privy to – and after the intensity of everything that had transpired. The Witcher withdrew into himself during the day, letting Jaskier become the background noise for your travels (a task which the bard threw himself into head-first), only occasionally participating in conversation when strictly necessary. The rest of the time, it was his trademark grunt, or silence.

He was task-focused, single-minded when you pursued prey; he dispatched monsters with a lethal efficiency when you faced them, faster than you’d seen him do before, and far more brutal. He was working _something_ out physically, because mentally, he could not contend with it.

This saw a veritable river of coin, and more time spent in villages; Jaskier was delighted, because it meant more stage time for him, and in turn, _more_ income. You were paid your share for protecting the bard – _much_ than your share, you would have said, but Jaskier was insistent. “You’re more than my meat-shield, Y/N,” He’d trilled one day, “You’re a friend.”

You weren’t sure how he’d managed to objectify and compliment you in the same breath, but it had made you smile all the same.

Geralt had become more cautious with you on hunts, asking you to stay further back than you thought was called for, but you obliged him silently; Jaskier complained, however, unable to see much of the action whenever you were sequestered behind a boulder or in a thicket of bushes.

“How am I to write great songs about his feats if I can only see… his feet?” Huffing, he’d fiddled with the strings of his lute one day as you sat on a log, too far away from the action to see much as the Witcher easily cut his way through a nest of arachasae, you watching hawkishly for signs of danger, ever-ready to aid.

“They are just big spiders, Jas’. Not much of a song, I’m afraid.” You’d soothed him.

“He’s not taking the risks he used to.” The bard noted, and you had cast a side-long glance at him. “He’s… ever since the _hex.._.”

“I know.” Cutting him off, you’d wrapped your hand tighter around the hilt of your sword. “ _Believe_ me, I know.”

At night, it was a different story; Geralt needed you close to him in order to sleep, at least one of his arms wrapped around your midsection before he even so much as dozed off. If you shifted in your slumber, you often awoke to him pulling you back against him, even unconsciously; in time, he preferred it when you draped over him like a blanket. If you got up to relieve yourself or to fetch water, he’d become restless; you’d experimented once, watching him search for you with his hands as he slept, muttering under his breath, sweat beading on his brow. _A nightmare?_ He’d started awake with a shout – your name – and you’d nearly dropped your mug of water in surprise.

“Hey, shhh, hey, I’m _here_.” You’d told him, climbing back into the bed. “I’m here, Geralt. It’s me. I just went to get some water.”

He’d grabbed at you with eager hands, pulling you close; you felt his heartbeat, almost human-paced, far too quick for his kind. “I thought, I–” The scratch of his voice was pained, and you kissed his neck, letting him press you as close as he needed. “Just a dream. It was just a _dream._ ”

You didn’t have sex the same way you had before; there was an awkwardness about it, now, although it often escalated into something needy and fast and dominant; it seemed as though he _wanted_ to make love to you, to take his time, but he _couldn’t_. You personally enjoyed the way he fucked you wildly into the mattress, groaning gutturally, but after you were both spent, you could tell that he was tormented. And when pressed, he did not open up.

–—————-

“Geralt, you can’t go after a notorious succubus _alone._ ” Your voice is firm, but he is ignoring you, saddling Roach with care.

“Yeah, Geralt,” Jaskier echoes, standing at your flank, his hands on his hips, “How am I to write about this battle? Through your recounting? _Great_ storyteller that you are – no offence – you tend to leave out details. Like the _entire skirmish,_ for instance. That’s a detail I need–”

“I don’t fucking _care_ about your songs, Jaskier,” The Witcher snaps, glaring over the curve of his shoulder. “This is too dangerous. For both of you. I ride _alone._ ”

Jaskier acts as if he’d been shot in the chest with a flaming arrow, wildly waving his arms as he splutters and claims his offence – how _dare_ Geralt not care about his _art,_ when it was making him so _famous_ , and how could he _say_ such things, and he was the _reason_ you all had such fine clothing now – but both the Witcher and you manage to tune him out as you lay a hand on Roach’s muzzle.

“If it’s too dangerous, you shouldn’t be going alone.” You tell him in a low voice, concern vivid in your eyes. Roach makes a soft whinny as if she agrees with you, and you adjust her bridle slightly, scratching the place behind her right ear that she favours.

“This succubus has become lethal and hungry. It’s already taken most of one village, and it’s starting on another. Hunters have failed to deal with it.” He begins counting through his potions, the glass clinking together. “But they were not Witchers.”

“You know I am adept with a sword. I can have your back–”

“ **You** are not a Witcher either, Y/N!” He cuts you off, the full weight of his unearthly gaze bearing down upon you, his pupils pinching to pin-pricks. His tone makes you bristle, but you also find yourself taking a step back. “This is above your knowledge, and it is _not your business_. As Jaskier will not be there, there’s no need for you to be, either.”  
  
“Yes there is,” You challenge, your own voice rising, “ _You’ll_ be there. That’s enough reason.”

“I said **no.** ” The words roll out from deep within him, a warning; if you press him further, you aren’t sure how he’ll react. He seems twice his size suddenly, volatile; you can almost see the unspent energy sparking from his body as the muscles of his biceps twitch, taut. Your teeth click together as you close your mouth, and glare, silent.

“…and return to us, probably covered in something-or-other, and I’ll just have to _fill in the gaps._ That’s how it is, huh?” Jaskier’s lyrical ravings filter into your consciousness again, and you close your eyes, taking a deep breath in.

“Come on, Jas’.” You growl, taking him by the arm, even as he protests, “Let’s get an ale.”

Geralt watches you leave, pausing, hissing under his breath and cinching Roach’s saddle securely.

–—————-

“Y/N,” Jaskier’s voice has hit the ‘whiny, but not begging’ stage, and it takes all your strength not to choke him out for some silence, “He _can’t_ ride off alone. Look, I don’t care about the song, either. I mean, I _do,_ but… I care about him more.” The inn-keeper plonks down two foamy mugs of ale, and you take a swig of yours as Jaskier wrinkles his nose, eyeing the wine across the counter.

“He’s not going to ride off alone.” You declare, wiping your upper lip. “I’ll tail him. I know where he’s headed.”

“He’s a Witcher, Y/N.” The bard’s voice is wary, as he sips the ale, apparently deciding it’s worthy of his refined palate, “He’ll know you’re trailing him.”

“I _know_ what he is, Jaskier.” You try to keep your voice even, but you’re irritated. “I won’t take the same route. Mine will take slightly more time, because he’s chosen a direct path riddled with Gods-know-what unspeakable evils for him to stick his sword into, but I should arrive at dusk. A succubus only leaves its home in the cloak of night, anyway.”

“Oh! Well, that changes things. Shall I pack–”

“I’m going alone, Jas’.” Your voice is softer than Geralt’s but the bard is crestfallen anyway; thankfully, you’ve anticipated this. You clap him on the shoulder. “Y'know what? I’ve spoken to the brothel owner in town. They’re expecting you at some point; may as well make it tonight.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier glumly peers into his drink, “But I’m not really in the mood.”

“I enquired to ensure that it’s not staffed purely by women.” It’s a whisper, and you smile gently at him, letting him know that you _know,_ and that it’s okay. “And I also crossed the madam’s palm with enough silver for her confidence.”

His blue-green eyes are wide, and he opens his mouth, before his lip trembles, and he parts his arms to wrap you in a hug. You make a sound, before returning the embrace, chuckling. “ _Thank you._ ” Is all he says; not because you’ve offered him a night of debauchery, but because you _see_ him; you understand what he needs.

“You’re my friend too, Jaskier.” Lovingly, you kiss his temple. “And as your _meat-shield,_ I must do my best for you.”

When he pulls away, his lashes are wet, and he rubs at his face with the back of his hand. “You had best come back with him, Y/N.” His stern voice is cute, and you grin. “Otherwise I’ll… well, I’ll… cry a lot, and write a lot of songs about it.”

“That’s all I can ask of you, Jas’.” You murmur, draining the remainder of your ale.

–—————-

The horse you have rented is strong and healthy looking, and you appraise the dappled stallion with a keen eye, checking shoes and tack as you strap your supplies to the sturdy saddle. He’s quite beautiful – ‘Bolt’ is his name, you were told – and you idly wonder if he’s for sale after all is said and done. He’d be quite capable of carrying you and Jaskier, and Geralt wouldn’t be lording it up over the both of you on Roach anymore.

There’s no question in your mind that you’ll return with Geralt; something is telling you that he _needs_ your help, and you’ve long since learned in life that trusting your gut is one of the smartest things you can do. Even if you simply watch from a distance, and are assured of his victory, you’ll be content. Perhaps he needn’t know you tailed him at all.

Your ride out of town is a trot as you guide Bolt through the tangle of pedestrians, until you’re on the outskirts and you can speed up your pace; the sun is already climbing past high noon, and the job is still a half day’s distance away. Once you find the path you’ve chosen, you let the stallion truly exercise his power, and you understand why he’s been given his name; his gallop is quick, and he seems to delight in the exercise of it. You laugh, feeling free in the speed, and for a time that is how you ride, alternating between a canter when you feel the horse’s breath heaving too hard, and a faster pace when you feel him getting restless again.

You pass merchants, peasants, one other rider; it’s slow traffic, and a safe road. There’s no need for you to be overly alert, and you only stop once beside a clear lake to allow Bolt to drink his fill of water, chewing on bread and cheese to keep your own stamina levels high. Cheekily, the stallion nudges you with his head until you share some of your blueberries, and you grin, holding them out on a flat palm for him to inhale. “You’re quite something, you know that?” He pricks his ears, and you realise you’re having a conversation with a horse, much like a certain ghost-haired stubborn _ass_ of a man that you’re stalking. Suddenly, you realise the appeal; there’s no one around, and Bolt seems to enjoy your voice.

There’s not much time to idle, and when you feel as though you’re both rested enough, you mount him again, continuing on your path. Occasionally you slow to check your map, expertly navigating by landmarks and your years of practice, but aside from that you keep your pace fast.

Bolt’s speed has forced your plans to change, because you’re in the village before the sun sets, and you don’t see Roach at the inn. Geralt must still be on his way. You’re unsure if this gives you an advantage or not, but you do know that your horse needs to be stabled; he’s earned a break and a good meal. Laying eyes upon the stable-boy, you drop coin into his palm, and nod at Bolt, unstrapping your bags. “See that he’s brushed down and treated well, boy.” The kid looks at the coin, then at your steed, and nods dumbly.

You remember when you were that age, dumb and full of hormones; with that thought lingering, you push the door to the establishment open with your shoulder, seeking the keeper without delay. There’s nobody in the place – no doubt due to the supernatural threat nearby – and the man is almost asleep at the bar.

“Good sir,” The thud of your bags rouses him, and he snorts, rubbing at his face, “I’d like to know where the succubus has made a home, please.”

He laughs at you. Most men laugh at you when they discover your profession; you patiently wait until he’s done, and then tilt your head expectantly, letting him know that you’re serious. “Oh, lady, you needn’t worry ‘bout that monster no more. We’ve a _Witcher_ on the way, I’m told. Knew that one would come along soon enough – we just had to increase the bounty.”

“All the same,” You try to smile sweetly, “I’d appreciate the knowledge, for my own safety.” There was no use in telling him you intended to head out into the woods. You didn’t want to hear his ‘it’s too dangerous’ speech.

“Well, then. That’s another matter. Good for a young woman to look out for herself, you know? Especially one riding alone.” _Shut uuuup,_ you think, but you keep that fake smile stuck to your features. “The creature has made a home north of here, in a cave. It’s beyond a small lake, deep within a landslide of slate-rock. Stay in the village and you’ll be just fine, ma'am.”

“Oh, I shall.” You trill; you think you’re laying it on a bit too thick, but he looks pleased with himself, like he’s saved you from the clutches of a broody dragon. “You have my thanks.” A coin is pressed onto the counter, payment for the information, and he swipes it up without hesitation.

“We have rooms, ma'am. I can have my daughter–”

“No need.” Cutting him off, you wave your hand, and then have to consider a valid reason to turn down his hospitality, “I’m, uh, simply passing through. Wanted to know where to avoid riding.”

“Oh.” He nods, gravely, and then sighs. Business must be dismal. “Well, then. Good luck to you.”

“Well met, keeper.” Nodding, you shoulder your bags again, turn your back, roll your eyes, and exit the building. _Men._

–—————-

The trek north is easy enough by foot, as you don’t want Bolt’s presence to pique Geralt’s suspicion; equally, you don’t want him to know you’re in the area. You take great pains to step on rocks where possible, to not disturb much of the ground, and to not leave footprints. As the sun is starting to set, the pile of slate comes into view, as well as the lake that the innkeeper had described to you. Your clever eyes dart about for a cover; you need to be able to see, but you also need to stay hidden unless the Witcher truly needs your assistance. After some debate, you settle on a small nest of bushes that grant you sight of the cave’s entrance, but are far enough away that you doubt Geralt will be able to catch your scent or your small movements. With your sword and dagger readied, you wait.

An hour passes at a trickle before your keen gaze falls upon the shock of Geralt’s hair; he’s approaching the cave as if one might visit an old friend, baked goods in hand – that is to say, he’s not worried about _stealth_. Roach isn’t with him, and you idly wonder if she and Bolt are getting along.

Rising moonlight bathes the area, reflected off the still surface of the lake, and you watch Geralt touch the medallion that hangs around his neck, his other hand digging into a pocket. He pulls out a vial and drinks the contents; you can’t see well from where you are, but you know his sclera have turned pitch. The elixirs help him battle, but you’re fully aware they’d kill any human – and that they have a detrimental effect on his health, too. It might be an Ekhidna Decoction, or a Full Moon of some sort, you’re not sure – you know their names, fuzzy on the finer details – but for a fight like this, he’ll need strength and speed.

You hear him grunt, flexing as he always does as the liquid takes hold, and when he raises his head again, his posture is quite different. He looks wild, untameable, and it’s a very inappropriate time for your cunt to buzz in interest between your legs.

He doesn’t need to move much further towards the cave; the succubus hasn’t survived so long by being a fool, and she exits her home languidly, coming to meet the Witcher. She’s _stunning_ – you’ve seen succubi and incubi before, but this one has lived a full life. Her hair is a tumble of radiant corn-silk, curly and glossy; the brown of her skin is luxurious and smooth, and the way she walks would make any human – regardless of their gender or sexual preference – weak at the knees. Gods, if she was directing her focus upon _you_ , you’d probably be drooling. She’s draped in a gauzy cloth that she’s fashioned into a dress, but it does not hide her plump breasts or the wriggle of her pert derriere; the horns that tower from the crown of her head, however, give her completely away.

“Witcher.” You hear her greet Geralt, and her voice sounds like the hush of spring-rain on verdant grass, inviting and comforting at the same time.

“Murderer.” He returns the greeting, as though they are old friends; you feel an odd pang of jealousy, even though you’re fully aware he’s there to slay her.

“Oh, what an _accusation_.” The succubus giggles, each step towards him a slow dance; he’s watching her carefully, and there’s no indication that her foreplay is having any effect on him. Meanwhile, you think you’d be kneeling before her, begging her to step on your face by now. A mix of the succubus’ sexual aura and Geralt’s presence has you uncomfortably wet. You try not to squirm.

“You know why I am here.” His voice is a wolf’s warning, a threat as she takes another step; his hand moves to the hilt of his sword. “You _can_ live peacefully, monster. You don’t _need_ to feed until they are drained. Why have you chosen to take so many lives?”

“Because I can.” She retorts, spreading her arms wide, “Because I like to feel full and alive and powerful. And because they give their sad mortality up to me so very freely; they _beg_ of me. I simply give them what they want – the best death a human can have, in my embrace.”

“The best death a human can have is a natural one, from age, in his bed.” Geralt snaps, “You have overstepped. You have forced their hands, and my own.”

“ _You_ hate them, too.” Her voice rises a little, as she rakes her gaze along his body, “The way they waste their lives on simple frivolities, the way they tumble foolishly into trouble, beg your help, and then _shun_ you.” His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. “You could live as I do, Witcher. You could be a god.”

“I am no _monster._ ” You can barely hear his answer.

She laughs, and the sound is angelic, feathery. “Oh, but you _are_. And why fight it? Why not make use of that elixir throbbing in your veins and fuck me?” One hand brushes her hair back, and you feel that jealousy flare again, stabbing at your stomach; you want to behead her as much as you want her to sit on your face. “Or are you saving yourself for that sad little woman half-hidden in the berry bushes?”

Ah, _fuck._

“Woman?” Geralt’s focus is altered, and it’s an opportunity; with supernatural haste, the succubus strikes, claws and teeth at his neck. You can barely track the movements with your human eyes. Geralt lets out a roar of pain, twisting, gripping her by the wrists and hurling her to the ground. You see the blood dripping at his neck and cover your mouth with your hand, even though you’ve been given away.

She hisses, twisting sharply as the Witcher drives his sword into the ground a mere fraction of a second too late; on her feet again, she whips her head, intending to gore his ribs with her dangerously sharp horns. He wrenches out of the way, but is forced to leave one of his weapons driven into the dirt as a consequence. They circle one another, as he withdraws his larger blade.

“Stupid.” She taunts him, “You’re _tied_ to her, and yet you didn’t know she followed you here.” Tied? You want to emerge from your nest, but you’re fearful it’ll further distract Geralt.

“Hexes can _linger_ , succubus. You know that.” He slashes at her, a one-two jab that she dodges, her blonde hair a whirl; again, they face off, sizing one another up. “It means nothing.”

“It means you _marked_ her, Witcher.” She trills, and laughs again. “It means she is for you, now, and any other man that would take her would be her death. But you _know_ that, don’t you? You _know_ you’ve condemned her.”

He roars in anger, striking blindly, and she easily rolls away, swiping back with sharp claws, scoring his armour, cutting into the flesh of his thigh. Staggering, he tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword and twists elegantly, feigning a blow and anticipating her reaction; this time, you hear her shriek of pain as his blade bites into her side, a dire wound.

“I have **not** condemned her.” He spits out, “I will have her with me. I will _protect_ her.”

“Just as you protected her today?” Her reply is quick, even though she’s visibly suffering from the wound, “She followed you here, Witcher. Which must mean you _left her_ in a town to come see me. So sweet. But what if she’d grown bored and bedded a man whilst you were gone, hmm? What if that _ache_ overcame her–”

He snarls again, and you realise her baiting is working. She can’t seduce him, but she can fuck his mind. This is evident when she catches him with her claws again, and kicks at his right knee from behind, the leg she previously injured; he stumbles, and she’s upon him.

“Release him, you _bitch!_ ” Your feet propel you from your crouch without your permission, and she’s forced to do as you say as you swing your weapon at her, a wide arc that is not as quick or as graceful as Geralt’s, but that she must deal with nonetheless. It gives him time to regain his footing, and she hisses.

“ _So nice_ of you to join us, darling.” There’s a quiver in her voice, but when she focuses her dark gaze upon you, you feel fuzzy.

“Look away, Y/N.” Geralt instructs in a harsh bark, and you do as he says, forcing your gaze between her feet on the ground. Quickly, you step in a wide circle to cover her back, although you can no longer see where she is looking. She’s lost _all_ advantage, and she knows it; her next attack is driven by spite.

Ignoring the larger threat that the Witcher poses, she whirls gracefully to strike at you; you parry her clawed right hand, but feel the left rake your hip, and you grunt in pain. This close, you’re forced to stare into her eyes, and they are alive with rage and panic. “You’ll lose him,” She promises you, “Witchers _always_ stray.”

“Don’t speak of him as if he’s a _dog_.” Twisting your sword out of her grasp, you pivot on the balls of your feet, aiming an elbow to her midsection; it meets air as she pirouettes out of the way – and directly onto Geralt’s blade, speared through her as though she was nothing but an hors d'oeuvre at a gala. You gasp for breath, watching as he sneers, jerking the sword sharply upward, through her heart. Blood dresses her body in a gory torrent as she gurgles, and slackens, stilled.

Both of you stand there in the rush of adrenaline, as Geralt shakes his hand forward, the succubus’ limp body collapsing to the ground. You lower your weapon, watching as he stoops down to sever one of her horns, proof of her demise and the trophy he needs to collect the bounty.

“Geralt–” You start, your voice splintering the silence.

“How badly are you hurt?” He asks, and there’s such a _force_ in his tone that you balk, feeling your stomach clench. It’s not anger – it’s evolved into something else entirely.

“She scored my hip with her claws.” Inspecting said wound, you wince, and frown. “I do not think it even needs stitching. Did she hurt–”

“I **told you** to stay with Jaskier in town.” He stands, towering over you; the web of veins around his eyes is black, but you swear you see the faintest flash of glowing red in them. “You could have been _killed._ ”

“Apparently I could be killed at _any point_ in my life, now, according to her!” You argue, pointing at the corpse. “Why did you not tell me that the hex wasn’t so… simple?”

“Because you won’t lie with another man!” He thunders.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!”

“ _Like **fuck** you will!_”

You can’t answer, because he’s upon you; his mouth is fierce and hot and urgent and you instantly respond in turn, battling for dominion with a kiss that is teeth and tongue, the hard burst of your breaths quick when you part, only to dive back in. His hands are all over you, jerking at laces and buttons, simply popping them off when they don’t comply with his desires, and you do not object at all as he divests you of your jerkin, leaving you in the cotton of your undershirt. Your hands tug roughly at his hair, twisted in the silvery locks, and he snarls at the sensation, pulling you to the ground atop him, rolling with you so you’re beneath him.

There’s no point in battling with the buckles of his armour, so you palm his cock beneath his leather breeches instead, squeezing as you pull at the laces, desperate to free him. He assists you by simply jerking the fabric apart, and you hear the leather tear as his enormous length springs free; he’s throbbing, iron-hard, sticky strands of his precome dripping in a stream every time he twitches. You’ve never seen him so turned on. Another wash of your arousal floods your trousers, and he groans at length.

“You’re _fertile_.” He rumbles, nuzzling into your neck, beginning to roughly tug your trousers down. You lift your hips to allow him, but the statement has you confused in the heavy haze of your lust.

“How do you–?”

“I can _smell_ you, Y/N.” Teeth nip at your neck, and you lengthen it for him, writhing, sighing, “I know your body. I know it because I made it _mine._ I know it because everything within me screams to _claim_ you, to _breed_ you, to force you beneath my dominion.” You can’t see his irises, but the black of his eyes are feral, and his upper lip is curled. “I was hexed to become a monstrous animal, and that is what I have _become_.”

“You aren’t– _oh!_ ” Trying to argue is very difficult when he rubs your weeping slit with the tip of his cock, concentrating pressure on your clit; obediently, your legs jerk open. “ _N-not_ a monster.”

“I **am.** ” He hisses, lifting himself from you so that he can grab at your waist; effortlessly, he rolls you, and then presses back down, keeping your legs spread. You feel his hardness twitching at your ass as he rocks it between the two cheeks, his arousal wet on your lower back. “I am, and I can’t stop it. _Not anymore._ I cannot have children but I’ll try – _fuck_ – I’ll _try_ with you until I am drained, every single _fucking time_ I smell you like this. I’ll fill you with my seed until you’re _dripping_ me. I’ll make my claim upon you in _any_ way I can.”

Your eyes are rolling back in your head; this should feel wrong, but it’s simply making you whimper and spread your legs wider. _Is it the hex?_ The tiny part of your intelligent brain is wondering, but you realise with a sudden clarity that you actually don’t care. You want this. You **want** him to claim you.

“Y-yes.” You whisper; he grunts, and stills. “ _I want it._ ”

“You didn’t ask for this.” His voice is tortured, but still his cock trembles; you wonder if he’ll simply burst on your back.

“I don’t care.” Your lower back arches, and the small gesture earns you a thundering growl of approval. “I want… to be _yours._ I don’t want you to _fight it_ anymore.”

He makes a strangled cry, losing the war he’s been battling since that day he was hexed, and he pushes your ass slightly further forward with the power of one hand, sheathing himself inside your cunt in a brutal, singular thrust. The intrusion of him stretches you, aches, makes you bite off a squeal at the same time as he wraps his other arm around your throat, pulling you as tightly as possible into him, your clit crushed against his heavy balls, your walls absolutely throbbing around his cock. He holds you there for a few moments, panting wildly, before he begins to move.

It’s a mating rut, pure and simple; whatever rationality Geralt had been harbouring has totally eroded away as he gives into the desire of you, his entire focus singular. Now that he’s no longer holding back, the pleasure of it all consumes both of you in a hurricane storm; he controls the flow of blood to your brain with the flex of his forearm, making you dizzy, and every rush of oxygen he grants you causes a violent crush of your cunt as you’re fucked into the ground, into a feral fornication that has your mouth open, drool spilling from your lips.

Every thrust he makes drives your body forward, powerful, and the sounds he makes – _Gods_ – he’s snarling and snapping and shuddering bodily as he takes his pleasure from you, utterly claiming you, battering your pussy with his thundering dick as if it’s the only thing he was put on the earth to do. You’re faintly aware of someone screaming, until you realise the sound is coming from _you_.

Words are impossible; he releases your throat and grips the braid of your hair instead, twisting it into his fist, forcing your spine into a harder arch as he picks up his pace, consumed by the moment and the hex and the elixir that still empowers him. Your fingers dig into the peat of the earth as you feel every muscle in your body tense, every synapse singing, fucked nerve-raw as you become nothing but his vessel; you come fiercely in obedience to his rutting, the collapse of your cunt savage and stuttering with every pulse that rockets through your body, so fucked-out that you can only gasp for air. It is your being that begs of him instead; the milking flutter around his driving length that says _come, come inside me, make me yours._

He tilts his head skyward and releases your hair, his huge hands circling your waist as he bottoms out within you as deeply as possible; his snarl rips from his throat, monstrous, and his cock explodes in a _torrential_ orgasm within you, his seed splashing and spilling as he fills you as promised, holding you tight whilst he trembles and pants and endures the magic-made climax that now rules his mind, and your own. The throbbing lasts for well over a minute as he gently rocks, drawing it all out, his balls aching as they spend themselves; he gives you _everything_ , skin-on-skin, the hammer of your heartbeats matched.

Finally, you feel him begin to relax, although he does not release you from the position or withdraw; your own return to the world is slow, fuzzy, and gradually you uncurl your fingers from the earth. You’ve never felt so raw, so exposed – so _complete_.

“ _Fuck_.” He utters, the husk of his dry voice at your ear, and you tremble bodily. “ _ **Fuck**_.”

You want to agree with him, but the noise that comes out of your mouth is more of a whimper.

“We can’t… go _back_ from this.” The gentleness of his tone is returning, and you can hear the guilt in his voice. Slowly, gently, he withdraws from you. You feel abandoned, ‘til he lays beside you in the leaves and dirt, pulling you to rest on his chest.

“I don’t want to go back.” You tell him, honestly. He looks down at you, and you see the gold of his irises start to return, glimmering as his sclera fade to grey, and then to white. “I want… everything you promised. I loved you _before_ that hex tied our fates together, Geralt.”

A smile touches his lips, and he strokes your hair back from your forehead; his eyes are so honest and grateful that you feel like crying. “I will always protect you, Y/N. Never will I leave you. _Never_ will I fail you.”

You kiss him again; it’s slow, and languid, a gentle promise. “Mine.” You murmur, and he sighs deeply, no longer tormented.

“Yours.”


	3. Part Three - Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt thinks he can change your fate with the help of a djinn. Unfortunately, things do not go quite as he planned. Follows some of the events of S01 E05 of Netflix's The Witcher, 'Bottled Appetites', but mostly I twist it to fit my own narrative.

“It could be such a great thing for us!” Geralt is up and pacing, and more excited than you’ve seen him in a long time. You’re laying on your side on the bed, the sheets draped artfully around your hips for a modicum of modesty – only because Jaskier is sitting in the chair by the fire, watching the Witcher too, a cup of wine in his hand.

“It sounds stupid and dangerous.” Jaskier declares, sipping the wine, “So, when do we leave?” You shoot him a _look_ across the room, and he returns an innocent one, although the cheeky fucker is unable to keep the little smile from his face.

“A djinn, though? Geralt, even if there _is_ one in the lake, they’re not spoken of as the most reliable entities…” You know you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s so very gorgeous when he’s interested in a hunt – especially when he fixes you with a flashing ivory grin that he _knows_ you can’t resist. You groan. Damn him. “Plus, I can’t go with you. I am to meet the only swordsmith I trust with my blade – that’s why we even came to this town!”

“But the lake is so close!” The Witcher enthuses, “A day’s ride, at most. You can get your swords seen to, and relax for a bit. I’ll be back before you even miss me.” He must know what’s on your mind, able to read the narrowing of your eyes, because he kneels beside the bed. “We could wish for the hex to be lifted, Y/N. We could… live together, _normally._ ”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth and look at the ground. It’s a tension point; Geralt carries guilt because of the way the hex that has you tied makes him behave at times, but you _like_ being his mate. Some part of you – a large part – is terrified that if the hex vanishes, _he_ will vanish. “We could… wish for children.” The rasp of your voice is a whisper, and you meet his eyes; a range of emotions flit through his gold-leaf irises as his features soften.

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” He purrs, resting his forehead against your own, “Especially… _now,_ when…”

“Oh, by the _Gods,_ ” Jaskier moans, letting his head roll back and hit the top of his armchair, “Please do _not_ start on this whole… bonding mate… hex thing again. You two are disgusting enough as it is to travel with. I don’t want to know what time of the month it is for her, _okay,_ Geralt?” The bard is met with two sets of amused eyes, and he huffs haughtily, lifting his wine to his mouth, muttering, “… _I_ want a hex-mate to attempt to knock up continuously.”

You sigh bodily, worn down by the two of them, and grit out your answer, “ _Fine_. But you’re taking Jaskier with you.”

“What?” Geralt barks;

“Yes!” Jaskier cheers.

“It’ll make a good song, probably. And if I am to truly relax, I’ll need quiet.” You flutter your eyelashes. The Witcher makes a rumble of protest, but Jaskier looks thrilled, ignoring your half-veiled insult. “You can both fit on Bolt. Roach is still getting that shoe seen to.”

“Two men out on the open road, a song in our lungs, the wind in our hair,” The bard swans over to clap Geralt on the shoulder, and the larger man grunts. “It’ll be so… _rugged._ I love it.”

“Jaskier, go back to your suite.” The Witcher demands.

“Wh-what did I do? That’s _no_ way to speak to your manly expedition travel bud–”

“If we are to leave at dawn, I would like to say a _proper_ goodbye to my love.” His eyes have taken on that predatory shine that you adore, and you giggle, cocking your finger in a _come hither_ motion.

“Disgusting!” Jaskier repeats himself, already on his way out, “An _abomination_. Truly I should be martyred for putting up with this. Jaskier, Survivor of Filth. No, that doesn’t have a ring…” He shuts the door behind him, and Geralt pounces.

–————–

“Ride well, Bolt.” You whisper to your steed, who has his ears pricked at the sound of your voice. Geralt is onto something, you swear; horses are much smarter than you’d once given them credit for. “And safely. And if Geralt doesn’t share his fruit, you have my permission to take it from his hand.”

“No he doesn’t.” The Witcher corrects, pulling you into a hug from behind, and you squeak your surprise, grinning. “I’ve enough apples for the both of us.”

“You don’t know Bolt yet, clearly. There aren’t enough apples in the world.” The dappled stallion whickers his agreement, and nudges Roach, who snaps her teeth at him. Swing and a miss again; the two horses stable together fairly well, but Bolt’s crush on Roach is absolutely a dead end. Apparently Roach has incredibly high standards.

“I’m going to miss you.” Geralt purrs in your ear, that low register that makes you shiver every time. You turn to face him, stroking a wayward strand of pale hair from his handsome features, reaching up to kiss him chastely.

“It will be no more than two days, as you said.” You’re trying to convince yourself that all the things he’s told you are true, but you still feel a terrible pull inside of you; you no longer have any idea if it’s the hex, your feelings, or your intuition, and the spin of your inner compass has you a bit stressed. Perhaps Geralt is right, and a day of leisure, bathing and errands _would_ do you good. You could actually read a book, or maybe have a summery dress sewn for you. _So why is there a pit in your stomach?_

“Things will be different after this,” He kisses your forehead, “You’ll see. We have so much to look forward to together.”

“Are we leaving this week?” Jaskier’s voice bursts the bubble you’ve sheltered yourselves in, and you look up at the Bard, already saddled atop Bolt. “I’m steering!” He declares, and both the horse and Geralt make a noise of protest.

“Be _safe_ , my love.” You tell Geralt, stepping away, and look up at Jaskier, “And _you_ take care, too. If anything happens to either of you, I’ll resurrect you in order to murder you myself.”

“She’s _so_ sweet.” Jaskier trills, as the Witcher climbs atop Bolt, shoving the bard to the back of the saddle, “Isn’t she sweet? My bodyguard, your lover. Just a _darling_.”

Smirking, you watch them exit the town until you can’t see their silhouette on the horizon any longer. Then, with a deep sigh, you turn back into the inn, preparing to start your own day.

–————–

Without the two boys, time drags. It takes far less effort and coin than you think to have your repairs done; Roach’s stable-hand is adept and quick; the tailor has you measured for a light dress with a promise that it’ll be finished by the next day, and you’re submerged in a hot bath, all before the middle of the afternoon. Wallowing in the warmth of the water, you realise you even miss Jaskier’s endless stream of verbal consciousness. It feels wrong without them – without _him_ – and you can’t relax, not even pampered and time-rich. You read the same page of your book three times before you groan your exasperation, and simply get out of the tub.

You could go for a walk, or have a fine supper, or take a nap. Nothing appeals, as you re-dress and begin to pace the room. Something at your lower back itches, and in your state, everything is annoying; turning to the mirror, you look over your shoulder, cursing the inn-keep for having lice or bugs in the bed.

But instead you see the faint glow of three red dots at your lower back, and you feel your heart turn to ice. It’s the same mark Geralt had.

There’s no way to tell exactly what it means, but you know there’s no chance you’ll be relaxing on the bed like a lady of leisure until they return; they have a full day on you, and the faster horse. You curse, shouldering your necessary belongings, securing the remainder of your clothes and other less important items. Locking the door as you leave, you pause to tell the innkeeper that you’ll be gone on business for a few days, and pay him to keep watch over your belongings. He’s acutely aware that some of them belong to a Witcher, and so you know they’ll be safe.

Thankful that the stable-hand was so efficient, you approach Roach, smoothing her well-groomed mane back. “Hey, girl,” You whisper, beginning to saddle her, “I know you’re not used to having me on your back, but we need to get to Geralt. Maybe it’s nothing but – I’m worried.”

She prances a little in place, and you don’t know if it’s because she’s eager for the freedom of the road again, or if she somehow understands the urgency of your voice, but you just _hope_ she’ll accept you as her rider without Geralt.

–————–

She does not.

It’s not that she rejects you entirely, it’s more that she has her own agenda; when you want to speed up, she’s interested in a berry bush. When you want to slow down to get your bearings, she’s suddenly at a canter. Night has fallen and the moon is high by the time you’re ready to scream. You dismount, and jerk her bridle as roughly as you need to, trying to get her attention.

“ _Look here,_ missy,” You growl, “My love, my mate, is out there, maybe in trouble. Maybe–” You cannot say the word, “– _Hurt._ ” Roach whickers, and her ears are flicking. You swear she’s actually _listening_. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, after this, you’re welcome to bite me all you like. But I **need** to get to him. To your _master._ Please.”

It’s the weirdest thing, but after that, your ride is much smoother. She’s not as fast as Bolt can be, but she has stamina, and you navigate through the night and into dawn.

By the time the sun is climbing, you’re both exhausted, and although you do not wish to, you need to take a break. You find a small clearing off the main road, hitching Roach securely to a tree, making sure she has access to fresh water and feed; there’s also a lush burst of fresh grass for her to graze at. You’re too nervous to eat, but you drink deeply of water from a nearby stream until your belly is full, knowing that your bladder will awaken you in a few hours, so you won’t oversleep. Beside Roach, you lay in the shade of the trees, and fall into a dreamless doze.

–————–

The sun in sneaking towards dusk when your biological urges awaken you as you planned, and after taking care of them and double-checking Roach’s tack, you are back on the road. There’s leaf-litter in your hair, and it feels as though sand is in your eyes, but neither of those things are of import as you ride further into the night. When you finally reach the lake that Geralt had described – you know it by the landmark trees, and the shape of it – it’s approaching dawn again, and you feel as though you may keel over at any second. You lead Roach to the lake’s edge so that she can eat and drink again, tethering her to a low, sturdy shrub, and begin to search for signs of the boys.

The grass has been disturbed in multiple places, and you crouch, recognising Geralt’s larger boot-prints, and Jaskier’s smaller ones. They _were_ here, but the prints are at least a day old. Frowning, you keep looking, the sun-rise casting a pretty shimmer across the prismatic water of the lake, aiding your examinations with light. It takes another hour, but you come across pieces of a vessel shattered at the lakeside; without touching them, you can see that they are made of an ancient clay, and can make out the handles that once decorated the piece, as well as the distinctive pointed bottom. _They found the djinn._

“Son of a _whore_.” You curse; rising, your eyes dart around wildly, as if hoping they might leap from the bushes wearing jester hats, like this is all one ridiculous prank on you. But you only see Roach, who is staring at you, and the whisper of the playful breeze running its fingers through the tree-leaves. The being is free, and neither of them are here. The mark at your back flares suddenly, and you hiss, pressing your hand over it.

With large strides, you make your way back to Roach; she can sense your disposition – perhaps it reminds her of Geralt – and this time there is no bickering as you navigate to the closest settlement, praying to whatever Gods will listen that you’ll find them there.

It takes too long, far too long for you to find someone who will actually give you information; the majority of men you speak to want to know what a _girl like you_ is doing in a _place like this_ , and most of the women don’t have time for you. The guard that finally divulges something of use must see the murder that is screaming in your eyes, because he doesn’t try anything on you.

“A Witcher came through here, ma'am, yes. Had a bard with him, he did. He looked quite unwell.”

“ _Who_ did?” You question, sharply, as Roach paws at the ground with a hoof, “The Witcher or the bard?”

“The bard,” The guard continues, and the knowledge doesn’t soothe you. “They saw the healer. There was a skirmish, though, this morning – I ain’t privy to fine detail, you see, but I think the Witcher and that healer were taken to the dungeons. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout the bard.”

It’s something to go off, at least, and you drop coin into his hand in wordless thanks, pointing Roach towards the prison at the guard’s direction; she gallops at your command, and it’s up to the foot-traffic to get out of your way. _Fuck them._

At the dungeon gate, you’re blocked again; everyone is in an uproar about something – _someone_ has died, and it must be ‘magic’, and you don’t get a straight story from anyone, no matter how much you jingle your purse of coin. It feels like chasing a fairytale, and you’re so frustrated and exhausted that you actually snap at the last guard you question.

“Well, if it’s _magic_ then, for fuck’s sake point me to the mage in this _piss-soaked **pig’s cunt of a city!**_ ” You roar, and he shakes before your wrath; his gloved hand points east, and you storm from the prisons, back to Roach, continuing your chase.

–————–

The mansion you arrive at was once grand, but now the roof has collapsed, and there are plumes of dust and smoke rising from it. You stare dumbfounded as you approach, your mind racing; the conclusions you jump to are too awful to fathom, and so you just continue forward blindly, your pulse in your throat, thudding behind your tired eyes.

Dismounting from Roach at the gate, you spot Bolt tethered nearby, and are relieved at the first _real_ sign of the boys, although it guarantees nothing. Frantic, you stagger on ride-wearied legs towards the building, intending to enter it. You struggle against a pair of arms that collide with you, blindly, fighting, until Jaskier’s voice pierces the fog of your brain.

“Jaskier!” You shout, relief dominating your tone; throwing your arms around him, you hug him to your chest, forcing the air from his lungs; whatever he’s saying is silenced in a wheeze as you tremble, thrilled to see him. If he’s alive, it _must_ mean Geralt is. Surely. When you pull back, though, you notice the blood that stains his shirts, and you suddenly feel like you might be sick. “Geralt, **where** is Geralt? Jaskier, _where?_ ”

Shoving him away, you head back towards the building, wild of eye; Jaskier tries to grab at you, to stop you. “ _No,_ Y/N! Don’t, please don’t. He’s– _don’t_ go in there!”

Even if you wanted to, the front entrance is blocked by debris, and, wrestling the bard all the way, you circle the building to find another way in. There’s an elven healer standing dumbly by the side of the manor, staring in; you break away from Jaskier, and sprint towards him.

“Y/N, **no!** ” Jaskier screams, but you ignore him.

“Sir! Good sir, is there another way into–”

Beside him, you look into the window he’s peering at, and freeze.

Geralt.

Geralt, with _another woman_ on top of him.

_Geralt,_ with a woman of raven curls and bewitching eyes riding him, as he eagerly guides her, their gasps and grunts filtering through the broken glass.

You feel as if the earth has dropped away from beneath your feet, and you are falling, although you’re stood stock-still in place; Jaskier has reached you, and is tugging your arm, trying to get you to move. You can’t. You stand and stare and watch the betrayal unfold before you, open-mouthed, tears bleeding openly from your eyes, that _damnable mark_ on your lower back ablaze with pain.

“…under her _spell_ , that must be it, that’s all it is, Y/N. She’s a witch, she’s _evil,_ please just – come away from the window!” Tuning into Jaskier, you finally turn your attention to him, and you can see your own heartbreak echoed on his empathetic features. The elf is saying something, something about her _beauty_ and _power_ , and if you had the strength, you’d punch him in the face.

But you have nothing. There’s _nothing_ of you. You’ve become an echo, a husk, a wraith; in less than half-a-second, Geralt of Rivia took your trusting heart and _destroyed_ it.

“ _Witchers always stray_.” You hear the succubus’ words, a taunting memory, and finally you allow Jaskier to pull you from the cursed scene, stumbling with your steps.

“We’ll get you to the town inn. We’ll get you cleaned up, and into bed, and he can tell you _himself_ that it’s all an awful misunderstanding–”

“No!” You finally break, pushing the bard bodily away from you, choking on a sob as you grip at your chest; everything hurts, and you think this is how you might die. “ **No.** ”

“Y/N, please, _please…_ ” Jaskier is keeping his distance now, but he has his hands up like you’re a wild animal, desperately trying to soothe you.

You just shake your head, shuddering, and back up ‘til you feel Bolt’s warmth against you. He noses you, concerned, and you mount him easily.

“Don’t _do this_ , Y/N.” The bard pleads.

“I have enough coin from you, bard. May you find yourself another worthy bodyguard in town.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, far away, laced with frost.

He responds, but you don’t hear him; unhitching Geralt’s saddle-bag from Bolt’s side, letting it crash to the ground, you urge your steed through the gates and onto the road, ordering him into a gallop.

Mine? Yours? Forever?

_Whatever._


	4. Part Four - Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the events surrounding your discovery of Geralt, you must both move forward. You run away from him; he tries to follow. You find sanctuary in an unlikely place.

Geralt’s eyes crack open slowly, the sunlight a rude intrusion on his dark, dreamless slumber. He examines the ceiling, smells the sweat of many bodies once-coupled in every position imaginable, feels the silk of decadent pillows beneath him, and wonders where the _absolute fuck_ he is. He groans as he attempts to sit up, and fails; everything is sore, strung-out. It’s about then that he makes out the form of Jaskier, standing over him, hands on both hips.

“Jaskier,” He rasps, the desert of his throat painful, “What–”

He’s cut off when the bard kicks him in the ribs, _hard,_ enough to make the Witcher flinch in on himself with a grunt of pain.

“ _What the fuck,_ Jaskier?” His question is sharp, angry, and once again he receives the boot; he’s winded only for a moment, before he forces himself to his feet, intending to throttle the songbird.

“How _could you,_ Geralt?” The bard questions, and the bigger man takes in the blood that has long-since dried on his shirts; his usually well-styled hair is in total disarray, and his aquamarine gaze is reddened, glossy with unshed tears. Confusion dominates Geralt’s disciplined features as his mind twirls in a hazy dance, trying to recall each step that lead him to this odd confrontation; like a slap across the face – which Jaskier looks like he might be considering – memories rush into the eye of his mind with a clarity he _immediately_ dislikes.

“…You’re okay.” Is the first thing he says, raking his pale-gold gaze over the bard, some kind of relief settling in his stomach.

“And _you_ looked just _wonderful_ an hour or two ago, with that witch wriggling atop you like the viper that she is!” Jaskier bites out, and Geralt winces visibly. “Oh, Gods, _tell me_ it was a _mistake,_ Ger’. Tell me she cursed you, or used some spell, or… I don’t know, eye of newt! What in the name of the Gods do witches–”

“She used no curse. And she is a _mage,_ not a witch.” He mutters, lowly, and the heaviness of guilt begins to settle on his leonine face; Jaskier takes another swing at him, but Geralt catches his arm, snarling. “And what is it to _you,_ bard? Would you rather I fucked you instead?” He’s exhausted, and the other man has gotten on his last nerve; he’s ready to trade punches.

“ **She** saw.” Is all he says, simply, and Geralt feels his inhuman heart skip a slow beat, the blood in his veins biting icily.

“… _Who_ did?” He asks, because he _has_ to ask; it has to be a misunderstanding. Jaskier has to mean someone else, _anyone_ else.

Jaskier barks out a humourless laugh, wrenching his wrist free of the Witcher’s grip, taking a few paces away; his hands are threaded in his hair, and he’s let the tears sneak down the smooth planes of his cheeks. “Who do you _think_ , Geralt? We’ve been gone too long, or– or that stupid hex drew her here, or something. _Damn it all!_ Best that she’d never crossed our sorry paths in that blasted inn.”

Geralt says nothing, frozen in place; he doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe.

“Her _face_ , Geralt. It was– I’ve never seen such an expression.” His voice quivers, and he finally stops pacing to sit down, pillowing his head in his hands. “Broken. Betrayed. … _Vacant._ ”

The Witcher’s eyes close. “Tell me she’s still here.”

“ _Really?_ Of **course** she’s not, you moron.” The smaller man’s voice is laced with heavy sorrow.

“Where did she _go?_ ” Geralt’s answer is a low snarl, and Jaskier jerks his head up to meet the man’s gilded gaze; it’s haunted, frightened. He’s never _seen_ the Witcher frightened.

“And you think she’d tell _me?_ ” In disbelief, Jaskier shakes his head. “As far as she knows, I’m complicit in your despicable behaviour. She took Bolt and left. East, maybe – I don’t know. As fast as that horse would take her.”

Geralt curses, takes a step forward, and then whirls on the balls of his feet, pacing in a small circle. He’s thinking of the villages nearby, which of them would make the most sense for you to run to, and there’s _too many_ to think of. You have two hours’ ride on him, at least, and the faster horse.

“You took her from me!” The bard accuses, a sob hitching in his throat, “She wasn’t my bodyguard. She was my _friend–_ ”

“And she is **my mate!** ” Geralt roars, picking up an empty wine jug and hurling it across the room, where it explodes in a fantastic puff of ceramic dust. The mark at his lower back flares, and he grunts in pain, pressing his hand across it.

“Good.” Jaskier sniffs, “I’m _glad_ you’re hurt. Maybe you can feel just a little of what she felt when she saw you through that window.” He gestures to the shattered glass, and Geralt squeezes his eyes closed again. There was no way you’d missed anything.

“My… last wish.” He whispers, and the bard snorts, about to say something when he catches the gravity of the Witcher’s gaze, and closes his mouth again. “She was… tearing herself apart, trying to force that djinn into her. So I _gave_ it to her.”

“You should have just let her _die!_ ” The declaration comes from a human, not an oath-bound Witcher, and Geralt shakes his head.

“I couldn’t. If I had, I’d become…” He clenches his fists at his sides, “…even _more_ monstrous.”

“So, what, then,” Jaskier makes a wide gesture with his arms, “She wished to fuck the White Wolf? An _all-powerful mage_ wished for some horizontal refreshment from _you?_ That’s cheap, Geralt. You think she’ll buy that?”

“I think she… wished for my _child._ ”

Jaskier’s mouth shuts with an audible _click,_ and both men stand in silence for a moment. A pile of bricks shift, reminding them both of the questionable integrity of the building’s structure.

“I remember… _being_ with her. But it was like puppetry; she moved, I moved. I couldn’t _stop it_. I don’t remember everything. Just– fighting. Gods, Jaskier, I _fought_. When I wanted to push her, somehow my hands pulled her. When I wanted to– to choke her, somehow–” He pinches his teeth together tightly, and wrenches his gaze to the side, tortured.

“You cannot father children.” Jaskier murmurs, taking a step towards the man who is clearly tearing himself apart, visibly aching.

“I know. But I do not know if a djinn can… _override_ that fact.”

The bard’s hand rests gently on Geralt’s massive shoulder; the Witcher glances at him, and Jaskier sighs. “Take Roach. Find her. **Fix this.** ” Three commands; he feels the large man shudder.

“I don’t even know where to begin–”  
  
“You _begin_ by giving me coin so I’ll have a horse to take back to our belongings, where she last was. Then you stop feeling sorry for yourself, walk outside, and get on Roach.” Jaskier’s fingers tighten their grip momentarily, “And you _find_ her. Because if you do not, my next ballad… it will be not very flattering, and I swear by _every God_ that will listen that I’ll let the _whole world_ hear it.”

“If I can’t find her, I don’t know if I’ll be around to hear it.” He mutters, pressing a pouch of coin into the bard’s belly; wordlessly, he takes it, and then Geralt is leaping gracefully from the broken window, intent on following Jaskier’s instructions.

–—————-

You’re surrounded by a sea of wine bottles in a lumpy bed, miserably nursing that morning’s hangover, staring blearily at the ceiling – which looks much the same as it has for the past two straight days.

Where _were_ you? You didn’t know the name of the town. You didn’t know what you’d even said to the terrified woman staffing the desk, a disturbing mixture of wretched weeping and screaming. All you really could remember is that you’d ridden Bolt until he could barely trot, and you had tumbled into the first establishment that looked as though it rented rooms, shaking out coin for the care of your faithful steed and for your stay. _How much had you paid?_ It doesn’t really matter to you. Two women had taken you upstairs – you remember that – and had undressed you, wiped the sweat and dirt and tears from your face, and had put you to bed with poppy-milk so you’d sleep. The next two days and nights, you’d accept nothing but wine and a crust of bread, even though a sweet girl kept trying to get you to eat properly. You think you may have thrown a shoe at her.

Moaning, you try to push yourself up, and feel the dull throb of that stupid mark at your back, reminding you with every movement that you’re forever tied to a traitor of a man who has words as pretty as his eyes. _Fool’s gold,_ you’d once heard a description of a mineral that resembles the coveted metal, and that is how you think of that gaze now. Who was the fool, though – you, or him?

There’s a knock on your door, and you make a low hiss. “Go ‘way.” You call, hearing the slur of your words; you wonder if you’re still drunk. Ignoring your wishes, the door opens anyway, and you see the familiar girl appear; she’s hesitant, probably presuming you have another projectile in your hand, but you’ve no fight left; with a huff, you fall back into the pillows.

“You seem more lucid today.” Her voice is sweet, and you close your eyes; you pick up the scent of crisp bacon and butter-fried eggs, and your hungry stomach clenches and growls. “I’ve brought you breakfast. I think it best if you do eat something.”

When you open your eyes again, you regard her; she’s a slip of a woman, flame-red ringlets bouncing around her heart-shaped face, her lips rosy and full. She reminds you of a doll, especially with the way she fixes her tempered-chocolate gaze upon you, wide-eyed; you want to smile, but you think your lips have forgotten how. “…Thank you.” You manage instead, pushing yourself up. Ignoring the cutlery she’s provided, you pick at a piece of bacon, and gulp at the water she’s brought.

“My name is Verra, my lady.” She continues, and you lift your blood-shot eyes to examine her again, chewing slowly. She’s dressed in red silks, the kind that tie at the waist – easy access – and your gaze narrows slightly as you take in the rest of the room; the low-light of the lanterns, the two over-stuffed armchairs sat by the fireplace, the tapestries that dress the walls, and you swallow your mouthful.

“Where _am I_ exactly, Verra?” Your words are careful. She tilts her head in question, remembering the state you arrived in. Perhaps you truly have no idea.

“The outskirts of Cidaris, my lady.” Widening your eyes, your feel your lips part. From Rinde to Cidaris? That ride must have taken at _least_ two days, perhaps longer; you know shortcuts, and you remember parts of the journey, but it’s close to three hundred miles away from that damnable town you left in your wake. Bolt must be _exhausted._ Gods, maybe he’s–

“My horse.” You fluster, “Is he well?”

“He’s charmed _all_ the ladies.” Verra giggles, pouring more water into your glass, “His shoes were worn down quite terribly when you arrived. We’ve seen to it that they’ve been replaced. He’s resting in our stables, and I swear we’ll run out of apples soon; he flirts with every girl that tends to him ‘til he gets one. I think he _may_ have strained a muscle in his haunch, but it seems to be much better now that he’s rested.”

You let out a breath of relief that is laced with small laughter. Leave it to Bolt to be the more charming of the two of you. You’ve sequestered yourself in a room, breaking apart, and he’s got a slew of girlfriends. Typical.

“I’m… in…” Squinting, you wait for Verra to finish your sentence for you, not wishing to offend her.

“A brothel, my lady, yes.” Her smile is sweet sunshine, and again you laugh, reaching for more bacon. “Oh, I know – typical of the fates, is it not? You, running from a man, ending up in a place that men run to.” You pause again, staring at her heatedly, and she regards you kindly. “Don’t look at me like _that,_ my lady. I have seen so many broken hearts. Yours… well, yours might be the worst I’ve come across in my years, but I know them well.”

Unbidden, traitor tears leap into your eyes, and you swallow thickly. She murmurs, tucking a strand of your tangled hair behind an ear. “I’m so _transparent._ ” You apologise, attempting to make light of it, but your words are tight in your throat. “You must think me quite foolish.”

“Not at all.” She tells you, kneeling at the bedside. “I think you _fierce_. Whatever happened – you survived it. You came to us, generous with your coin, and trusted us. I see your swords, your armour – I know that you’re a fighter.” Her fingertips trace the bedspread. “And I know the ache of heartbreak, too. You’d think a whore like me would know better, but alas, I am a woman. I _feel._ ”

You sniffle at the sweetness of her words, trying to hold the swelling that builds in your chest at bay, but she rises, and opens her arms. You fall into them, openly sobbing, sorrow bursting from your being and shaking you to the core of yourself, bleeding onto her silky gown. She rocks you, saying nothing; she simply strokes your messy hair, and lets you grieve.

After a time passes, you’re hiccuping softly, the release of emotion leaving you tired but somehow lighter; her kindness has touched the dwindling spark in your heart, asking it to _endure,_ to continue to burn. The first real smile touches your lips. “Y/N.” You rasp, drying your eyes on your nightgown sleeve, “I am n-no lady, Verra. My name is Y/N.”

“It suits you.” She decides, brushing away a wayward tear with her thumb. “A strong name for an indomitable woman.” You snort, unladylike. “Now, then. Your breakfast is cooling, and I believe you could do with a bath. I shall have the water boiled.”

“Will you– do you mind–”

“I’ll sit with you, Y/N.” Standing, she begins to pick up the wine bottles, the clink of glass loud in the small room. “I do not think you could brush out that nest atop your head alone, anyway.”

You decide that the Gods, in their mercy, have sent you a being of divinity to guard the remnants of your shattered heart, and as you watch her leave to prepare your bath, you are thankful.

–—————-

Too many days have passed.

It’s starting to creep into a week, and he’s turned the villages surrounding Rinde upside-down, almost earning him another stint in the prisons; when he has no luck, he rides Roach back to the town you’d all began at, the place where you’d wanted your sword re-forged. He needs the remainder of his things, and to re-strategise with Jaskier.

Geralt crosses the stable-hand’s palm with coin, aware he’s familiar with Roach; he takes the exhausted mare to see her tended to, as the Witcher enters the inn, ignoring the greeting from the keeper – who is undoubtedly making a mint off this whole disaster – and takes the stairs two at a time, entering your rented room.

The dress you’d asked to have sewn is hung up; it’s simple, a lightweight cotton affair with a sweetheart neckline, cap sleeves, and a full skirt. It’s a pale shade of blue, with a gold-silk hemline; a nod to both men in your life. It’s feminine, and soft, and Geralt wants to curl up with it on the bed, even though it doesn’t smell like you yet.

The things you left behind do, though; he picks up one of your sleep shirts and brings it to his nose, clutching it, breathing of you. The mark at his lower back flares, but he ignores it, lost in memory, lost in a heartache he feels exclusively responsible for. Perhaps it’s better he _doesn’t_ look for you, he thinks, but then he remembers the threat you face without him. What if you are seduced? _What if–_ the sound of tearing fabric grounds him, and he looks down at the shredded material, blinking. With a sigh, he pockets a scrap of it.

Jaskier enters the room, looking worn-down; he’s been pouring himself into writing and waiting and drinking, hoping you’ll return for your things. But there’s nothing there that you desperately need, and both men know it.

“No luck, then.” It’s not a question from the bard; he walks over to the armchair and sits down amongst flutters of paper that he’s scrawled music upon, ink-dotted and wine-smeared. Geralt grunts, and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, staring into the middle-distance.

“We have to keep _trying_.” Jaskier urges, his voice strained from over-use; no doubt the inn has seen many of his performances, paid or not.

“She could be _anywhere_ by now, Jaskier.” Geralt despairs, hanging his head. “Gods, she could be in the mountains in a cave, for all we know.”

“What if she’s…” The bard’s words are tiny, but they evoke a huge reaction from the Witcher; he slams his fist against the stone wall, leaving a crack.

“I would _feel it._ ” He grits out, “She’s **alive.** ” What he does not say is, _she’s in pain._ He can feel that, too; it’s echoed in the mark, pulsing in the hex.

Jaskier lapses into silence, toying with his lute so his hands have something to do, so his mind stops racing to dead-end scenarios of tragedy. “What if we get a mage…”

“I am _done with mages._ ” Geralt snarls.

“…a mage that _isn’t_ a crazy she-devil bitch.” He rewords, contemplating his own idea, tightening a string with a twist of a knob and testing the sound with a gentle thumb. “You must know of one, surely. One you trust?”

There’s silence again as Geralt thinks. The bard waits patiently, turning over names in his own head; he knows many people, but few of them wield any power that could help. Either that, or he’s pissed off the ones that can.

“Triss Merigold.” The Witcher finally breaks the silence, but his voice is reluctant. “She harbours some… feelings for me. But she would help. I think.”

“What _kind_ of feelings?” Jaskier presses, instantly distrustful. Geralt sighs.

“The kind where I’ll have to tread delicately, and probably apologise a lot.”

“Well, good.” The bard begins to rise, “You can get some practice in, because I don’t think _‘I’m sorry’_ is going to cut it with Y/N.” Geralt must look murderous, because Jaskier raises his hands in surrender. “I am just saying.”

“Her home is in Novigrad, as I last recall.” The Witcher changes the subject, “It’s not far from here. Less than a day.”

“On foot, or by horse? Because I’m coming with you, Geralt. If you’re going to fix this, you’ll need me.”

He grunts, annoyed, because he knows Jaskier is right. It’ll make their travel longer; Roach tires too quickly under the weight of both of them, and there isn’t enough coin left for another mount. Tossing up the value of time versus the overall need to succeed in getting you back, he relents.

“We stop _only_ when we absolutely have to. You will ride roach, because we walk at _my_ pace.” Geralt stands, and begins to shoulder his things, pausing with reverence at the dress, which he carefully folds and packs. Jaskier starts doing the same, stuffing parchment into a satchel without much care.

“Does this… Triss take kindly to strangers?” The bard asks, wondering if he’s headed to his death. Again.

“She’ll like _you_ just fine.” Geralt mutters, “It’s me we should worry about.”

“Yes, I know.” Jaskier huffs, pushing past the larger man and out the door, “It’s all about _you._ ”

–—————-

The women of the brothel are welcoming and actually fun to be around, and although you’re still tormented and aching, you start to venture from your room. With Verra’s gentle assurance, you sit in one of the parlours when there’s no work to be had, and listen to gossip. It’s soothing, distracting, and your new friend is mindful of you; when she senses you’re exhausted or if a topic is too much for you to bear, she’s quick to whisk you away, or to change the subject. Sometimes you examine her to see if she actually has a halo.

One morning, she wakes you with breakfast; you’re not hungover for once, but the dark sweep under your eyes advertises your lack of rest. She places the tray on the bed, and sits, breaking her fast with you, as you’ve started to do lately. It’s comfortable, companionable.

“Y/N,” She begins, hesitant, “We like having you here. A _lot_. You and Bolt. But… the Madame has brought up the issue of coin…” A wince strikes her pretty features, as she nibbles the edges of some bread, “You laid out a lot, when you arrived, but it’s beginning to run thin.”

Of course you knew you couldn’t stay in this place forever; there would be a point when you’d have to go out and make more to pay your way – and to keep Bolt in apples, greedy thing he was – and you nod solemnly. “It’s okay, Verra. I’ll be okay to leave. I can be gone by midday. You’ve all shown me _such_ kindness–”

  
“We don’t _want_ you to leave, Y/N.” Verra interrupts, meeting your gaze; her cocoa eyes are solemn. “Since you’ve been here, it’s been… _so_ much better.”

You know what she’s referring to; the brothel isn’t in the best of neighbourhoods, and some of the men who come to visit the girls do not give them the respect they are due. On more than one occasion, you’ve physically thrown out poor suitors, or threatened drunkards with your blade until they’ve left, raving about ‘bodyguard bitches’. One fool had tried to take more than he paid for, once; you’d kicked down the door, choked him unconscious, and had left him ass-up in the mud outside, freed of his coin. After _that_ incident, the quality of patrons had improved, as had the spirits of the girls and the Madame.

“I have been happy to make myself useful.” You assure her, “I am owed no coin for that.” She shakes her head.

“We wish for you to _stay._ As protection. You will be paid in board, food, stabling for Bolt, and a small allowance. It’s not the most prestigious of positions, and I know you probably have _better_ places to go, but…”

This time, you interrupt her, taking her hands. “You’ve been as a sister to me, Verra, when I’ve been at my weakest. When others could have taken my coin and left me for dead in the rain, you and your working sisters took me in and nursed me. It would be my _honour_ to protect you.”

Her smile is radiant, and she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, and return the embrace. Between you, the pot of tea rattles in warning, and carefully you part so as not to spill the hot liquid.

“I am so _glad_ ,” Verra trills, clapping her hands. “We shall have your armour mended, and anything else you require for the job seen to. Madame asked me to ask you; she thinks you have a weakness for me.”

“Me, _weak?_ ” You snort. “A pretty girl once told me that I was indomitable. I have no weaknesses.”

She giggles, and flicks a piece of scrambled egg at you. “Admit it. I’m your favourite.”

“I’ll admit that you need to be hoisted over my shoulder and tossed into the dirty laundry!” You threaten, making a lunge at her, and she screams and jerks away, skittering off the bed. This time, you do upset the teapot, and both of you watch the liquid seep into the sheets.

“Ah, fuck.” You mutter, and meet her eyes.

Both of you laugh, as she begins to gather the sheets, damning them to the dirty laundry, too.

–—————-

Not two days’ ride away, a pair of men pace an open road, wrapped for the cold. It’s night, and one is atop a mare. The other is walking fast enough to keep the horse at an almost constant trot.

They are silent in their journey as the walls of Novigrad come into view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to note that yes, Geralt is taken advantage of. It's something that is addressed and worked through during the story. Jaskier's reaction is knee-jerk and unfair; bear with me.


	5. Part Five - Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier seek Triss' help to locate you. You settle into a new rhythm -- until a pair of portals open up in your room and turn your world into chaos. The djinn's wish must be fulfilled.

Geralt’s fist curls in his glove as he goes to bang on the door, but he remembers that manners exist in the world – and that Triss favours them – and he swings the circular knocker instead, tapping iron-on-iron. Behind him, an exhausted Jaskier shifts from foot to foot, as Roach rests, tethered.

After a time, the heavy oak opens enough to allow the two men a glimpse of a pair of dark, curious eyes, and a bob of chestnut curls. Then the door closes again with a _click._

“Triss…” Geralt begins, tapping on the door again.

“Well, this was a wonderful waste of time.” Jaskier pouts, kicking at a stone on the step. “Is there a woman walking that you have _not_ slighted in some way, Geralt?”

The Witcher glares heatedly at the bard, who returns the stare; their face-off is interrupted when there is a creak of hinge, and they find the entrance to the house open, with the mage standing on the threshold, cloaked in silk and fur.

“Forgive me,” Her voice is of warm baked pastries, sweet and wholesome, “I needed to fetch my gown. It’s quite late.” The last part is something of an accusation, as Geralt glances at the sky to try and gauge the position of the moon; it’s definitely past midnight. He’d forgotten about such trivialities.

“It is _us_ you should forgive, my lady,” Jaskier’s tone is smooth, “Were the matter not urgent, we’d have stayed nearby and waited until a more suitable hour to seek your counsel.” Triss affords him a scrap of a smile, her freckled nose wrinkling slightly, and it’s evident that the two have sized one another up and found no threat. Geralt, on the other hand, is still an outlier.

“Urgent?” The mage echoes, scanning both men up and down with quick flicks of her gaze. Neither seem to be injured, or in distress – although Geralt looks so tense that she wonders if he’ll keel over at the push of a finger.

“It’s a matter of life or death.” The Witcher says, gravely; he takes a small step forward, and Triss takes one back. Jaskier winces. “ _Please_ , Triss. I would not be here… bothering you… if it was not. If I had another _choice._ ”

She snorts, and crosses her arms. “You’d not visit me if you had someone _better_ to see, you mean? You’ve not changed, Geralt.”

“What my large, slightly _misguided_ friend means to say,” The bard interjects, “Is that we have no one to turn to, and you represent hope in a terribly bleak situation.” Geralt rumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head.

Triss looks at them both again for a long moment, and then sighs deeply, stepping to one side. “Come in, gentlemen. I’ll have my maid stable Roach, and you can tell me your troubles.”

The Witcher wastes no time in striding into the mansion, apparently knowing his way, and Jaskier trails behind. Once more, the door closes.

–—————

“I don’t know if red is my colour, Verra.” You are turning in front of the mirror, inspecting yourself, tugging at the fabric. She clicks her tongue.

“So _modest._ You could wear a beige sack and look incredible. It just so happens that this colour represents us, and as you protect us… well, it’s sort of a uniform. And _I_ think you look sexy.” The younger girl grins, tugging the lace of your corset tighter. You grunt at the sensation.

The Madame has had a coat altered for you; originally, it must have been intended for one of the girls to stand outside in the cold, but she’s had details added. A large, intimidating hood has been sewn on, as well as studs that dot the asymmetric hemlines and the reinforced elbows. Decorative tags hang from six loops, made to look feather-like, placed at the skirt of the piece and at the arms. She’s had the corset bones removed to allow for more of your free movement, but the lacing remains to cinch your waist in. The red leather has an old design burnt into it, and you have to admit, it _does_ look imposing. It’s pure serendipity that it fits you well, although you think it makes rather a show of your breasts at the front. “ _Sexy._ ” You hear Verra repeat, and you have to laugh.

“I’m not _supposed_ to look sexy, I’m _supposed_ to look like you shouldn’t cross me. Thank the Gods Madame let me wear breeches.” You pull at the plain black of them, sighing. “I shouldn’t have been as content in skirts. But this jacket _does_ provide some protection from hidden blades. It should work nicely.” Your hands pat your own body, where you’ve sequestered your weapons. Having a sword strapped to your back doesn’t scream _‘come in’,_ but it’s hidden behind a curtain just inside the front door of the establishment if you need to reach for it.

“No one shall mess with us again.” Verra sighs dreamily, squeezing your shoulders, “Not with our guardian angel at the door. You have no _idea_ how thrilled the girls are.”

“It is you who are my angels!” You argue, smiling. “Where would I be without you? Gods, probably dead in a ditch.”

“Don’t say such a horrid thing!” Verra pinches your hip, and you swat at her hand playfully. “In any case, none of that ever happened – you came to us, and we needed you just as much as you needed us. Perhaps it is what they call fate, or fortune.”

“I spit on fate and fortune.” You mutter, sullenly, turning from the mirror on booted feet to take a sip of your tea. The ginger and lemon sits well in your stomach; the food of Cidaris, especially on the outskirts, is not of fantastic quality. Much of it must be fried or twice-cooked, and you long for the taste of freshly fire-roasted game, hunted by your own bow. Adjusting to city life is strange. “I think we must make our own – even when the force of the world seems to be pressing you in a direction. We are the mistresses of our _own_ destiny, are we not?”

“I dunno.” The red-haired girl chirps cheerfully, sipping wine from a cup. She’s dressed for work, wrapped in crimson silks; you both begin your shift shortly. “Who am I to argue with the Gods?”

“ _Verra of Cidaris,_ that is who.” You tell her, turning to face her. “A flame-maiden who lures fools of men and parts them with their worldly goods, as they _thank_ her for the privilege. You are your **own** hero.”

She flushes under the weight of your praise. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince _yourself_ of this, Y/N, not me.” Her retort is gentle, but your fingers clench the teacup tighter. The hex-mark hums at your lower back. “And not all the men who visit us are fools. Sometimes they are handsome, and kind.” A smirk tugs at her full lips. “Perhaps _that_ is why you should consider skirts instead of breeches.”

“ **I** am not for **any** man.” You answer, too quickly, your words like a whip; Verra shrinks in on herself slightly. “No, forgive me – I do not mean to say that I am above your position. It’s just… men are… _disappointing._ ”

At this, she laughs heartily, rising. “And you’re telling _me_ this? Come now, Y/N. I’ve had _years_ of disappointment. Short disappointment, tall disappointment, thin disappointment, big, girthy disappointment…” You elbow her in the ribs, and she giggles harder. As ever, it’s contagious, and you find yourself chuckling too. Both of you quieten down when there’s a soft knock on your door.

“To your stations, ladies.” The Madame’s voice is firm, but kind. Draining the rest of your tea, you offer your hand to Verra.

“The fates will have to wait to be considered until after work, I suppose.” You quip, and she shrugs nonchalantly, following you downstairs.

–—————

“And that is why were are here, Triss.” Geralt has finished the whole sordid tale – leaving out some of the most _intimate_ detail – and the mage is quiet, the firelight dancing across her dark skin. “I must get her back. I… need her.”

Pain is etched in the woman’s eyes, but she doesn’t let it touch the rest of her face. She taps her fingertips against her chin. “You gave _Yennefer_ of _Vengerberg_ a djinn’s wish.” Is all she has to say, but there’s deep judgement in her tone. Jaskier shifts in his chair, having to suppress his urge to chime in and rub more salt into the wound.

“I… saw no other choice. She was tearing herself _apart_ , before my eyes. Whatever she wanted that djinn for, I thought she could simply wish it, and I’d save her a gruesome demise. I had no idea that she’d want… that she’d…” Geralt stammers, wrestling with the consequences of his actions, and his gloves creak as his fists tighten again.

“She’s a damn _fool,_ I can tell you that much.” Triss remarks, taking a drink from the mug of hot cider in her hand. “Asking for a Witcher’s child. Not only are you no longer virile, she doesn’t have the _ability_ to carry a child.”

  
“What?” Jaskier’s voice is a high register, and Geralt’s cat-gold eyes are sharp, too.

“To become a mage, we sacrifice. You know that, Geralt.” The warmth of her gaze settles upon him.

“I know you become sterile, as I do, but–”

“Yennefer is different. When she took the vows – I don’t know the full story, but I do know that she had to sacrifice a lot _more_ than most of us. She is without womb. Completely barren. Most of us are still intact, albeit doomed to the same childlessness.” She shrugs. “Even if the djinn _could_ enchant your seed, I do not know of one powerful enough to create a vessel for a child. The wish was wasted.”

Geralt’s body relaxes visibly, and Jaskier slumps forward with a groan, putting his face in his hands. “Thank the Gods.” The bard utters. “It isn’t _as_ dire as it could be. I mean, she’s still going to _murder_ you, and I’m going to watch, but… it could be worse.”

“Yes,” Triss agrees, “He could be doomed to a lifetime without his love. Death is a much nicer bargain.”

Silence lapses, and Jaskier wishes he was anywhere but in that little room; he clears his throat, and stands. “I’m, uh, I must use… the privy. Is it this way? I shall find it.” He excuses himself, but neither Geralt nor Triss break their gaze. Hers is hard, and his is regretful.

“I never meant to hurt you, Triss.” The gravel of his voice is low, gentle, like she’s a frightened kitten and he’s trying to coax her from hiding. She snorts.

“It was _my_ fault, Geralt. I do know that. Well, most of it. I know you were influenced when I first seduced you. But you came back… again and again.”

“I cared for you, Triss.” He sighs, and looks at the floor. “Just… not the _same way_ you cared for me. I wanted better for you.”

“Do you want better for her?” The mage’s tone is gentle, but brittle with hurt.

“Every day.” His laughter is humourless. “She does not know, but I spend time and coin in _every_ village, searching for a witch or a mage to undo the hex. It is too powerful. It’s why I went after the djinn. I can’t fulfill the hex – I can’t give her a child, or a safe and protected life. I’m sure that damnable witch knew that.”

“What does _she_ want?”

“…Me.” The Witcher glances over at Triss, and she’s never seen such anguish in the supernatural fire of his irises. “Or at least, she _did._ Now? I do not know. I will tell her everything, and let her decide. If she wants free of the hex, of me, then so be it.”

Triss starts at that, putting her mug down. “What, you’ll just… _do away_ with yourself? Geralt, no. There has to be something, some way to fix this all. The hex can’t be _so_ immovable. Maybe it can at least be adjusted.”

“Tell that to the… what, thirty, thirty-five witches, healers, scribes and mages I’ve spoken to, Triss. They talk about _destinies_ and _connections_ and ’ _meant to be_ ’s and other horse-shit. Conveniently always after they’ve secured my coin and failed to manipulate the connection.” Exhausted, he rubs a hand over his face. “I just… want her to be happy. And _safe._ ”

Silence lapses again, and is only broken by Jaskier’s quick footsteps. “Okay, so, I overheard most of that. And I found a strange room with a bunch of bones in it instead of the privy? My apologies, Triss.” The mage regards him, lightly amused. “What can we do to find her? Our coin has run thin, but whatever debt we owe, we’ll repay–”

“I’ve not much need for coin.” She interrupts, rising fluidly from her seat. “I’m a court mage. This is a favour for an old… _friend._ Nothing more.” Geralt looks up, and the gratitude on his angular features is prevalent. “We can begin by scrying. If we’re very lucky, we’ll get an idea of her general location. From there, I may be able to draw from the power of the hex to open a portal to her.”

Jaskier claps his hands together, breathing out his relief, as Triss opens a cupboard and produces a solid ball of dark jade; it is smooth, and no bigger than an orange. It’s sitting on a little wooden cradle and looks entirely ordinary, like a paperweight one might find on a lord’s desk. She brings it over to the table, and places it down gently.

“Do we need to hold hands?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt reaches over to nudge him in the arm. “ _Ow._ I was just asking.”

“Let her work in peace, Jaskier.” The Witcher grunts, and they both watch as Triss holds her hands above the orb, beginning to chant foreign words in concentration. The jade starts to lighten in colour, slowly, until it’s almost glowing. Gradually, hazily, an image appears.

–—————

“It’s the _least_ I could do for her, Y/N.” The man tells you, leaning one arm against the wall so he’s almost hovering over you, almost in your personal space; you don’t mind too much, however, as he’s one of Verra’s regulars, and you absolutely know that you could remove his liver with your bare hands if you needed to. He was tall and broad and handsome, but he was no fighter. “She deserves the coin. She deserves _more_ , if I am honest – I work myself to the bone to see her.” He grins, and you smile back at him. “She’s…”

“Irresistible?” You supply, cheekily nudging his hip. “A siren? _Enchanting?_ ”

“ _All_ of those things.” He gushes, and you laugh, seeing the love in his eyes.

“We are grateful for your coin, and for your gifts. I know she’ll love the flowers, the gowns, and the necklace.” He seems to melt, shuffling his feet.

“I am glad you are here to see over her, Y/N.” He confesses, “I didn’t want to come here, before. It was too dangerous; a man was likely to get a knife in his back, or his very trousers stolen. When I heard things had changed, I took a chance… and I met her.”

“She’s a working girl,” You remind him, gently, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder, “You _know_ that, right? Because if you come in here staking some jealous claim, I _will_ have to completely lay down the law.”

He nods, frowning. “Do you think she might… want to leave this, someday? With… me?” To ask you the private question, he has to lean in to whisper. You grin, thinking of the good fortune of your friend.

“Who am I to say?” You whisper back, “You can only ask, and hope.”

He pulls away, and takes your hands, kissing them chastely. “Even _that_ answer gives me hope. Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. Tell her I miss her already.”

Giggling, you nod. “I shall, sir. Good evening, and travel safely.”

As he leaves the brothel, you watch him and hum softly, wishing that every man who came to the establishment was as charming and kind as him. You cast your gaze to the parlour, where you know Verra is waiting to hear gossip. Gods, this is _saucy;_ you’re going to torment her with it.

With another peal of laughter, you head towards the side room.

–—————

“ _What_ are they saying?” Geralt’s voice is dangerous, a jealous and low rasp that warns of an incoming natural disaster, the tremors before an earthquake.

“I do not know.” Triss murmurs, focusing, “I can only see, Geralt. We can’t hear.”

“He’s _touching her!_ ” The Witcher goes to palm the jade orb, blindly, but Jaskier wrestles him away.

“Stop it, you enormous fool. Triss has to see, and you’re being ridiculous. It’s not as if they’re _fucking_.” The bard’s reprimand is sharp, and two-pronged, reminding Geralt of his infidelity.

“And what if they are making _plans_ to?” He ignores the guilt that licks at his heart, “It’ll be her death. She knows that.”

“Then she dies a fool.” Triss mutters, still trying to ignore the slap-happy men so she can keep the image clear. “She’s dressed… her clothes. Red. The sign… that flag…”

“What?” Geralt barks, mooshing Jaskier in the face with a massive hand, trying to get him out of his way, “Where? What flag? _What colour?_ ”

“Cidaris.” She muses, recognising a nearby sigil, “But… not deep within the town. She’s…” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and suddenly the ball darkens, the image lost. The Witcher snarls viciously and picks it up, shaking it as if it’s a festive present and he’s a child sleuthing out the contents.

“She’s **what?** ” He snaps, desperate. Gently, Triss lays a hand on his arm, squeezing, and takes the orb from him, placing it back on the stand.

“She’s at a brothel.”

Jaskier makes a sound of astonishment and confusion. Geralt explodes, picking up a chair and smashing it against the ground like some kind of tantruming primate. It splinters wood, and he pants in the aftermath of the emotional outburst, staring at the debris.

“Hm. I never cared for that chair, anyway.” Triss remarks sarcastically, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’m– _sorry,_ I– a _brothel?_ ” His voice rises again; he’s connecting the conversation you’d all witnessed, your clothing colour, and the location, and leaping to wild conclusions. “ _Why?_ Does she– she can’t _want_ to die, not… not like…”

“So you _go to her._ ” The mage’s diplomatic voice is firm; she begins to pull some potted plants together, needing the sacrifice to balance out the chaos she’s about to draw from in order to summon a portal. “You get on your knees and beg her forgiveness and hope she doesn’t kick your pretty face, Geralt.”

He’s trying to keep himself together, and so Jaskier sidles by the mage instead, taking one of her hands. “Y/N is one of my dearest friends. I am terribly sorry you had to deal with Geralt, but for my part – you have my eternal thanks. My next ballad shall be about a mage with star-dotted freckles and a luxurious laugh.”

Geralt picks up a piece of the chair and stares at it like he’s never seen wood before in his life.

Triss smiles warmly at the bard, and squeezes his hand. “If Geralt cannot have her see reason, perhaps you can, Jaskier. I feel how important she is. And maybe _some_ of us,” A glance at the Witcher, “Don’t heed destiny… but I do.”

She directs one hand at an empty space beside the fire, and the other at Geralt. He feels the bite of his mark at his lower back, hissing as the portal opens up, a swirling unknown yawning before them.

“ **Go.** ” The single syllable command, and Triss watches both the men disappear, before lowering her arms, casting a glance at the withered plants. “…I know how you feel.” She mutters, as she sits down in a chair that hasn’t been man-handled by a raging Witcher, and heaves out a long sigh.

–—————

“Shh-shhh,” Verra is soothing, loosening the ties at the back of your jacket. You are heaving over a bucket, strings of bile dripping from your lips. Your stomach is empty of the awful fish you’d consumed for dinner, but you swear you can still feel it sitting like lead in your guts. “I know we don’t get the _best_ meat, but the seafood isn’t usually so terrible. Perhaps it’s a stronger-tasting fish than you’re used to?”

“ _Don’t_ say fish.” You moan, dry-retching again, and she hums, keeping the hair from your face. “I think I’m _dying._ ”

“I think you had your heart broken not two weeks ago, and you haven’t eaten rich city food in a time.” She counters. You spit, and push the bucket away. “I’ll be sure you have bland food for a bit, hmm? Tea, and bread, and–”

“Please,” You beg, “Don’t… no more food talking. _Ugh_.”

“Here.” She hands you a cup of tea, the ginger and lemon that you seem to tolerate well, and you sip at it. “You’ve no… _enemies_ in Cidaris, have you?” When you give her a quizzical glance, she bites her lower lip. “It’s just, well, you’ve been sick a few days now. Is there anyone that would see you poisoned?”

Frowning, you shake your head. “No. I’ve never even travelled here, that I can remember. Perhaps once, years–”

Both of you are interrupted as a swirl of blue explodes in a bright light against the wall; instinctively, you shield Verra, drawing her to you. Two figures tumble out of the portal, and then it vanishes.

“ _By the Gods above!_ ” Verra squeals, drawing her skirts close, clutching you tightly. You blink dazedly, still light-headed; the flash of colour hasn’t helped your fragile condition. Still, you force yourself to your feet, and withdraw two daggers from inside your coat, even if you are slightly wobbly.

Jaskier groans on all-fours, woozy from the mage-travel, but Geralt is steady in an instant. You are shocked, enough that you relinquish your hold on one weapon; the left blade clatters to the floor. The Witcher takes a step towards you, but you shove Verra behind you, and he’s stopped by the glint of steel as you threaten him.

“Y/N,” He grits out, and he looks a sight; his usually groomed hair is free from the leather that ties it, haphazard, and his eyes are feral and frantic. He smells of sweat and horse and something faintly woodsy. “What in the fucking _name_ of–”

“How **dare** you come here?” You screech, hating the tears that blur your eyes, and the dizziness that makes you stumble. “How **_dare_** you show your face, Geralt?”

“ _ **What the fuck**_ are you doing in a brothel, Y/N?!” He thunders, and Verra draws closer at your back, gripping your coat-tails.

“Whatever the _fuck_ I want, you _bastard!_ ” You pick up a nearby vase to hurl at him; he dodges it expertly, and it shatters near Jaskier on the wall. The bard ducks, trying to get to his feet.

“Y/N, it’s not–” Jaskier starts, and you snarl at him.

“And **you**. Trying to hide him from me. Trying to _hide_ what he was… doing with her. Was there ever even a djinn? Was it all just some… _story_ to get me to be a _good girl,_ sitting at home, running errands whilst you two–” You choke on a sob, “Fuck, I can’t believe your _nerve_ , both of you. **Get out.** ”

“ _Not_ without you.” The Witcher snaps, making a grab for your arm. You wave the blade at him, but he easily disarms you, pulling you to him. “You have to listen–”

“ _Let me **go!**_ ” You scream, at the same time as Verra comes to your aid, trying to loosen Geralt’s hold on you.

“ _Let her go,_ you monster!” She squeaks; you’ve never seen her angry, but she’s like a little sprite, clawing the huge man’s arm.

“Just **listen!** ” He roars, fighting the both of you, as Jaskier comes to aid him; Verra swings at him, and he puts up his forearms to block the attack.

“There’s _nothing_ you can say to me that’ll change what you _did!_ ” You sob, still trying to tug free.

At that moment, another portal opens up, the flash of brightness blinding all of you for a second; it’s a purple swirl, and a woman steps through elegantly, dressed in a fine gown of emerald and crystal.

“Look at you all,” Yennefer purrs, perfectly presented, surveying the scene like a queen might look down upon the rabble of her subjects. Geralt releases you.

“I’m going to _fucking **kill you.**_ ” He promises, voice as an adder’s venom, as he bends to snatch the dagger you dropped. Yennefer cocks her head, and holds up a hand; the Witcher’s strike slows, and the metal hits a shield, invisible, protecting her.

Sobbing, Verra clutching at you, you regard the woman that has ruined your life and scream in pure _rage,_ the sound a jagged tear from your being, grief and violence.

“I don’t think you are, darling.” The mage informs him, as he struggles against the barrier, “Not whilst I am tied to your mate. And not whilst she carries my promised child.”

Everything stops in the room. Nobody moves, breathes, so much as shifts a boot.

You bend at the waist and vomit again, the tea splashing against the ground.


	6. Part Six - Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer explains your new role in life with great delight. You decide to seek out the witch -- the start of all of this. After offering an ultimate sacrifice, Geralt begs to come along as your protection.

“ **What?** ” Geralt finally speaks, breaking the stillness, save for your dry heaving.

“Oh, _come now,_ lover of mine.” You make a low sound like a dying animal, a warning that although you’re weakened, you will still fight. Yennefer looks amused. “I know you’ve connected the dots by now. One of the reasons I chose you is because you’re so very smart.” One of her hands touches his bicep, and she squeezes. “And _strong._ ”

Geralt snarls, snaps his teeth, and tries to strike her again; once more he hits a skin that bubbles her, invisible. She’s temporarily immune to physical harm. He lifts his hand to cast a sign and she bears the full weight of her violet gaze upon him.

“Ah, _ah,_ ” She tuts, “You _really_ want to throw out violent spells against a barrier when your beloved is in such a fragile condition?” Her gesture towards you is languid, as though you are a sideshow amusement. Unfortunately, she has a point, and although he’s visibly shaking, the Witcher lowers his hand.

“I _don’t understand._ ” You moan; Verra is at your side, stroking your hair, willowy limbs trembling with fear. Geralt moves to see to you, but she steps in front of you, all bristling like an enraged Chihuahua; her head barely reaches the middle of his chest.

“Don’t you come _near_ her!” She warns, even as he reaches for you; she’s quick to attack, a slice of your other abandoned dagger across his forearm, and Geralt snatches his arm back instinctively, hissing. For a moment it seems as though he’s going to strike Verra just to get to you, but Jaskier grips him and pulls him back a few steps, taking advantage of his disorientation.

“I know you _saw_ us, little pet.” The imposing mage regards you, and you try to straighten with Verra’s support. “Through that window, after everything that happened. I’m _terribly sorry_ you had to witness such… _infidelity._ ” Half-a-smile tugs at her lips, and she glances at Geralt. He’s seething. “Had I known he was claimed, I’d never have used him.”

“You would have _felt_ the hex, you lying _cunt_.” The Witcher’s voice is low, but far more dangerous than any volume he could lend to it; Jaskier and Verra are trading glances, each attempting to size one another up, both coming to the conclusion that they are the peacekeepers between yourself and Geralt. Yennefer, however, is a wildcard.

“Oh, is _that_ what that was?” Her eyelashes bat, as she touches her chest gently. “Huh. How funny.”

“What the fuck do you mean about… a _child?_ ” You try to make your confusion and distress known again, and you’re overwhelmed; Verra helps you into a chair, but she still stands guard over you with that knife, glaring at the room’s occupants.

There’s a bang on the door. Obviously your commotion has drawn a crowd; the other girls, the Madame, possibly patrons. Yennefer holds her hand out and the jamb glows a soft blue, sealed. “Occupied!” She chirps, “Orgies. You _must_ know how they get out of hand.” Self-amused, she takes a step towards the wine cabinet, and helps herself to a glass.

“Geralt, _tell_ her.” Jaskier urges in a low tone, “Because this Gods-damned snake isn’t going to be useful, it would seem.” Yennefer raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, and he scowls at her.

“Tell me _what,_ for fuck’s sake! I don’t–”

“There **was** a djinn, Y/N.” Geralt finally informs you; he wants to step closer, but Verra is unmoving, and although he could physically manipulate the girl into a closet if he saw fit, he can see the way you clutch her skirts. She’s your only friend in this room, as far as you’re concerned. “Jaskier and I got into a stupid argument at the lake and accidentally released it. I… wished that he would _shut up,_ not knowing that I was tied to the creature. His throat began to close; we sought help at the nearest settlement.” You remembered being told about them riding through, and you let him speak, although you can’t look at him. “Eventually we were directed to…” His tired gold eyes flick at Yennefer, who bobs in a mock curtsy, “…the town’s _mage_ , if you can call her that. She healed Jaskier, put him into a magic sleep. To pass the time, I went into town.” His large hand rubs across his face. “There was a misunderstanding in the tavern, folk unfriendly to Witchers, and I was put into jail to ‘cool off’. I was so _frustrated_ at the situation, aware of how long we’d been gone – I wished the jailer would…” He winces.

“Quite a mess he made.” Yennefer remarks, wetting her lips with the wine.

“I realised then that **I** had the wishes, wasted as they were. So I hurried back to the mansion, only to find Yennefer trying to force the djinn into her body. It was… tearing her apart. She was bleeding. She’d saved Jaskier, and asked for no coin; I felt I owed her a _debt._ I had _no idea_ what she’d wish for.”

You try to digest all of this information, feeling your head ache from dehydration, stress, and pure heartache. Verra seems to know what you need before you do, because she moves from your side only to fetch water, which you try to sip, your hands unsteady. She holds the cup for you.

“And imagine _my_ displeasure when I had myself examined in the days following, only to find that djinn truly are disappointing creatures. I wished for a child, the child I am _owed_ , and I am still barren. I thought them all-powerful. I suppose you can’t trust everything you read, can you?” The mage takes a stroll around the perimeter of the room, getting closer to you with every step. Geralt and Verra both tense. “But djinn must fulfil their promises, if they are to be released from their servitude, and this one did vanish. So _something_ had to have changed. I just needed to figure out what, exactly.”

When she’s behind the chair, Verra makes a wild, uncoordinated swipe at her with her small blade, and Yennefer rolls her eyes, making a gesture with a flick of two fingers; the smaller girl yelps as she’s pushed aside by an unseen force, straight into Jaskier’s grasp, who catches her deftly.

“The world is run by men. Men’s rules, men’s favour. It’s _disgusting_ when you think of it. But I did think of it; seeing as Geralt is quite intact – I found _that_ out first-hand,” You whirl in the chair, fire in your eyes, “I knew his seed could be enchanted. But I had nothing for the djinn to enchant. And then, I thought of the hex.”

The Witcher makes a low growl; he _knew_ that she knew. Verra, meanwhile, is wrestling with Jaskier, trying to get away from him.

“A soul-bond. Powerful. So powerful that I saw dents in it – some from strong magic-users – but no real breaking point. The djinn would have found it, travelled through Geralt, and into _you_. Which is how you’re carrying my baby, and why fish is so unappealing to you right now.” She kneels at your side, her beautiful eyes wide and full of faux-concern; you want to slap her gorgeous face, but you know you’ll just hurt your hand. “I shan’t torment you long, my little vessel. I simply came to lay claim on what is mine. I’ll return to you in… oh, about eight months?”

You open and close your mouth, tearing your eyes from hers to look at Geralt; he’s not denying anything she says, and his features are so heavy that you know the truth. _It’s all true._ “No.” You whisper, covering your mouth. “You can’t– if I am with-child, then… you _can’t–_ ”

“A djinn’s wish _will_ be honoured, Y/N.” Yennefer whispers, rising again. “Even if you don’t want it to be. That baby will grow, protected, and although it will be of your body and Geralt’s, it will belong to **me.** ” She glances between the Witcher, and you. “Hmm. Let us hope it is a girl. You are quite pretty, little vessel.”

You snap, trying to stand; she needs no magic to push you back into your seat. Geralt takes a step forward and is met with that damnable wall, upon which he beats an angry fist. “I **hate** you.” You bite out, the narrowing of your eyes like sliver-steel scraps, the truth of your words radiant on your features. She simply shrugs.

“I don’t care.” With another gesture, she begins to open a portal; you realise how very powerful she is. Currently, she’s maintaining three spells that you’re aware of, and she doesn’t seem to be impacted in the least. “But because I’m so _kind,_ Y/N, I’ll tell you something. It’s delightfully obvious – almost funny – but you can do with it as you wish.” Her grin is all porcelain, as she steps towards the swirl of purple. “If you want to be freed, simply seek out that witch. It shan’t undo the work of the djinn, but you won’t be tied to any man, if she’ll see you. Honestly, I am surprised neither of you thought of that sooner, but love makes one stupid. Or… is it _really_ love? Is it just the hex? Gods, _what_ a dilemma.”

She laughs as the portal swallows her, and she leaves only the faint scent of lilac in her wake, nothing more.

Verra runs back to your side immediately, scooping you into her arms. You don’t realise you’re crying until she smooths the tears at your cheeks with her thumbs. Geralt is frozen in place, wide-eyed. Jaskier slumps down the base of the wall to crouch, hanging his head. Outside, the crowd is still shouting, unaware that the spell blocking them from entry has been lifted.

“Y/N,” Jaskier murmurs, and both you and Verra shoot him a stare; you look wild, terrified, but she looks ready for murder. “I didn’t know what he’d done. I _wasn’t_ protecting him. I was trying to protect _you._ This was– this is– it’s all so awful. I’m _so sorry._ ”

You’re rocking a little in your chair, and your dear friend moves with you, trying to whisper little comforts, to keep you from shattering apart. You just keep whispering, ’ _no_ ’.

Geralt moves suddenly, and Verra actually hisses like a cat, but he ignores her. He’s on his knees in front of you; forcibly ripping the knife from you friend’s grip, he holds it to his own neck. You blanch in surprise, eyes as saucers.

“Say the word and I _will_ do it.” He promises, solemn-eyed, his leonine features tortured. Gods, but you’ve _missed_ him; even through everything, even with all that just eventuated, your body aches for a single touch from him. You’re too numb to realise that it’s not the mark at your back that hums, however – it’s _you_. “I’ll free you from me, from the child, from **all** that has been forced upon you without your consent.”

“Geralt, put the fucking dagger down!” Jaskier hisses, scampering to his feet. He’s ignored, of course; Verra’s grip tightens on you, and you stare at the Witcher. The tension is so thick it feels as if the air is liquid, difficult to breathe. He presses the blade, and a bright line of blood appears; one fat droplet rolls down his pale neck, crimson and bleak.

“ _ **No!**_ ” You scream, gripping his wrist, yanking the dagger away. He’s panting, shaking his head; he thought you’d say yes, or draw the dagger across his throat _yourself._ Instead, you launch into his arms, a broken woman, howling your distress. He hugs you tightly to his body, curling in on you, and for a moment you let yourself feel comforted and complete for the first time in weeks. Your mate, your reason, your _life;_ he’s around you, invading your senses, soothing you like a dose of poppy-milk. You feel something click back into place inside of you, and the healing is enough for you to pull away from him.

And slap him across his angular face as hard as you possibly can.

His head whips with the force of your blow, and he grunts, but he makes no protest; his own hand raises to nurse the red mark, your five fingers stark on his cheek.

“Do it again.” Jaskier snorts, and Verra makes a sound of agreement. You look at both of them blearily, before pushing yourself away from the Witcher, even as your body protests, your skin stinging.

“Y/N,” Geralt grits out, his voice as soft as he can make it, “What are–”

“I’m going to find that witch.” You say, pulling your bag from beneath your bed. Verra is at your side faithfully, gathering your things, watching Geralt with wary eyes. “I’ve spent too long trying to work out what is real, what is a lie – it seems I cannot undo this _burden_ thrust upon me, but that awful… _woman_ , she’s right. I deserve freedom.”

You hear Geralt stand. “You do.” He agrees, and you pause, looking at him. “I will come with you. To protect you, nothing more.”

“I do not need _protecting._ ” You hiss, shoving a nightgown into the bag.

“You do. I know how well you fight, but there are beasts out there that you’re not equipped to face. As– as a human, I mean. I do not know where this witch is, now; you might be travelling for months, and you’ll be going through… _changes_. I can keep you safe.”

Your upper lip curls, as your fingers tremble on the bag’s ties. “Fine job of _that_ you’ve done so far, Geralt.”

He makes a sound of pain, aware that the jab is deserved. “Please. I will sleep away from you, I will maintain a distance on the road… just, **please.** Let me _try_ to make up for what I’ve done.”

“I wish to come, too.” Verra’s voice at your ear makes you startle, and you blink at her. “I’ve never been away from this city. And after my father died, I helped my mother when she birthed my brother, Gods rest him. I have some knowledge as a midwife. If the journey takes a long time, I can nurse you.” Tears jump into your eyes again, and you wrap your arms around the fire-haired girl, resting your face on her shoulder. Both Geralt and Jaskier watch you embrace, the strength of your bond sweet and sisterly.

“You never hug me like that, Geralt.” Jaskier notes, sullenly, and the Witcher ignores him.

“Fine.” You breathe, pulling away from Verra, squeezing her hands. “You travel with us, Geralt. But you protect Verra, too. In fact, you put her safety _above_ mine. She’s skilled at many things, but she’s no fighter.”

He grunts, but he nods his head, accepting this condition.

“Well, Gods, then I’m coming too!” Jaskier demands, his hands on his hips. “I’ve been battered around by this absolute disaster as well. I deserve to see it through.”

“And what, you’ll fight with your _lute?_ ” Geralt snaps, and the bard points a finger at him.

“Verra will protect me. She stabbed your arm, I _saw._ ”

The girl snorts, and frowns at Jaskier. “I am loyal to Y/N. If I see a chance to push either of you off a cliff, I may take it.” Blandly, you laugh at her forwardness, because it’s all you can do in that moment.

The door bursts open, finally, and a spill of people tumble in; the Madame, a few of your working sisters, one lingering curious patron. They regard the disaster that is the room, wide-eyed and mouths agape.

“You must forgive me, Madame.” You sigh, hefting your bag, “I’ve found I’m no use to you. It’s a very long story, but… withhold my pay, to cover the damages.”

“You’re leaving us?” She asks, and casts an eye upon Geralt; she’s seen many of his kind before, of course. “…How did _you_ get in here?”

Verra trots over and wraps her arms around the elder woman’s shoulders, squeezing her in a hug. “You’ve been so good to me, Madame. Truly you have. But I am to… what is it you always say to me? _‘Spread my wings’?_ I think it’s time.” She weaves through the crowd on quick feet, presumably to pack her own bag. The poor Madame is trying to make sense of any of this, and your sisters are muttering, concerned. The patron is staring like a simpleton at Geralt.

“I can’t repay your kindness today.” You tell the lady, who regards you with wise eyes; she has no idea of fine detail, of course, but there’s gravity all over the situation, and your features are so solemn. She squeezes your hands.

“Whatever it is you have to do, it’s clearly far more important than guarding a nest of hens in a brothel, Y/N.” Her gaze flicks to Geralt, and then back to you. “When you came here, I think I _knew_ we’d not have you long. But I pray that we meet again.”

You nod, and draw in a shaky breath. “We shall. When I return, it will be in better health, and with a bounty for my thanks.”

She hugs you, and murmurs in your ear, “Just your health will be bounty enough, my dear warrior. And may I suggest chamomile in the evenings for your morning sickness?” When you pull away, your face must be a sight, because she chortles. “ _Come now._ I know much of a woman’s life. May you carry safely, Y/N.”

You have to dig your nails into your palm not to cry again. Behind you, Geralt shuffles, aching to touch your shoulder, or something, anything to let you know he’s there.

“Okay!” Verra trills, returning with a satchel that brims with cloth and the clink of vials, “I am ready! To the _open road!_ ” She’s instantly surrounded by her sisters, who bombard her with questions and hugs and tears. You take the opportunity to slip past, downstairs, to saddle Bolt. Both Geralt and Jaskier follow you.

“We will ride behind Roach,” You decide, “Verra and I. At a distance agreeable to _me._ You are to scout and navigate.” You can’t meet Geralt’s gaze for long; there’s too much raw emotion there, and you focus on Bolt. “Jaskier, until I decide I want to talk to you, you are to stay _away_ from Verra and myself. Am I clear?”

Geralt makes a grunt that you know means ‘yes’. Jaskier flusters in disapproval, before he’s nudged in the side by the Witcher, and he sulkily pipes up, “Clear.”

“Good.” Your friend emerges from the brothel, wiping tears from her eyes, fixing you with a wobbly smile. You know she’s frightened but thrilled, and you ache, wondering what you did to deserve her.

“Madame insisted on payment, both for myself and for you.” She hands you a pouch heavy with coin, and you sigh a little at the kindness of it. “You are weary, Y/N. Tonight, I say we find an inn and rest, restock our supplies. We can begin this search at dawn.” Her sensible words make you realise how tired you truly are; suddenly, you wonder how you’re standing upright at all.

“There’s a good inn not an hour’s ride from here.” Geralt finally speaks, untethering Roach. “She’s right; we rest tonight, and secure a mount for Jaskier. He’s not riding with me the _whole_ journey.”

“Oh, _so masculine_ in front of the ladies,” The bard protests, “But you love my warmth at your back, I know you do. Such an insufferable _grump_.”

Once, you might have laughed, but you don’t have it in you anymore. You mount Bolt, who’s already whickering at Roach – who is ignoring him – and help Verra up.

She wraps her arms around you, and squeezes in a little hug. “You’re going to be okay, Y/N.” Her voice is a whisper at your ear.

As you exit the stables and find the main road, you want to believe her.


	7. Part Seven - Gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You begin your hunt for the witch, hitting the road. Some things begin to heal. Others will take time.

“ _ **No!**_ ”

Your cry is a short gasp as you sit upright on your bedroll, frantic eyes darting around the canvas tent that flutters and breathes with the night breeze, trying to locate the threat that lingers in the hourglass-sand slip of your nightmare. Verra’s arms encircle you, as the girl whispers to you, returning you to your reality – although you’d argue that your current existence could be neatly filed under the category of ‘nightmare’ – and you let yourself sink into her embrace. As ever, Geralt is quick to appear outside; you’re witness to a flash of his bright eyes as he checks the tent for danger, before respectfully leaving you to your privacy.

“Just a dream,” Verra is muttering, half-asleep on your shoulder, “Gon’… be _okay._ ”

Once you have your breathing under control, and your hands aren’t as shaky, you lay the other woman back down. She’s still getting used to road travel, and your frequent night disturbances and sicknesses have her exhausted. You want to give her a night’s leave of you when you stop to stay in taverns, but she won’t have it; through the whole month you’ve been moving, she’s remained at your side, a constant and generous companion.

Sometimes you don’t clear much road; the jostling of Bolt can be too much, and you occasionally must make camp early, spending time miserably retching, curled on your side as Verra makes you tea and rubs your back. If you happen to be near a town, Jaskier sometimes takes his leave to earn coin singing, but Geralt remains the vigilant watcher, silent, keeping his distance from the two of you – although you could feel his leonine gaze, haunted, committed to your figure whenever you moved.

Verra is a decidedly excellent cook, better than you ever were; when the sickness isn’t plaguing you, she has a way of turning foods that weren’t initially appealing into something you can tolerate. You thrill at the hunt again, snaring wild hare and deer for her to work with, and although she wrinkles her nose at the skinning and gutting part of hunting game, she’s fairly content when the animal no longer looks like it once did alive. “I just like it better when it’s… _meat,_ you know? Not meat with a _face._ ” She’d once complained to you, and you’d laughed.

The boys were left to fend for themselves, a fact which Jaskier soundly detested; he was an _innocent party,_ he explained, and Verra’s stew smelled so _divine,_ and apparently Geralt’s idea of a decent meal was charcoal-burnt ribs. Every time he came too close to your campfire, the firey woman saw him off with a ladle, which was an endless source of amusement to you.

After a couple of weeks had passed in this fashion, Jaskier’s upbeat charm did begin to wear you both down; you remembered the way he’d grin just before he was about to do something to royally piss Geralt off, and he composed a song about a ‘siren of flame’ that ruled the seas with her strict dominion – something that made Verra flush to the tips of her booted toes – and gradually you began to relax rules. You hunted; Geralt took care of the butchering; Verra cooked; Jaskier cleaned up. And although your communal campfire had a wide circle, very much a _‘you stay on your side and we’ll stay on ours’_ arrangement, there was no longer two separate fires.

Geralt was true to his word and kept his distance at all times, unless directly asked for by Verra or Jaskier; you, on the other hand, tried to pretend he didn’t exist. It was a fairly useless endeavour, made doubly difficult by the burning pain of the hex-mark at your lower back that _howled_ for his touch, for him to get closer. The more it flared, the more stubborn you became. Occasionally you saw him wince, and there was something gratifying about knowing that it wasn’t just tormenting you.

Your direction was fairly linear; you were to head back to the forests where the witch had made her home and the hex had been born. Geralt insisted on the safest roads, however, and took no short-cuts through misty fens or mountain-passes or known locations of large monsters. A Witcher avoiding his work was bizarre, and you knew it pained him, but he’d prioritised _you._ As the designated navigator, he chose the routes, and you knew that arguing with him would mean extended interaction – and you were avoiding that.

In truth, you didn’t _trust_ yourself around him. There was a part of you that understood that he’d become a victim in Yennefer’s game just as much as you had. But there was a much larger part that hurt because he’d ignored all the red flags of her immense power, and had chosen to save her miserable life. That, and you could not get the image of the two of them _together_ out of your mind.

Bodily, in that tent, you shudder. It almost jostles Verra awake again, and you whisper softly to her, “I am going out to take some air. I’ll be back.” Her answer is barely audible, and within moments she’s settled back into deep slumber. As quietly as you can, you slip a thick wool cloak around your sleep-clothes, and slip out into the brisk evening air.

You don’t go far, not out of sight of the campfire, where either Geralt or Jaskier are probably sitting guard – most likely the Witcher, who seems to be about as rested as you these days. You find a fallen tree and perch on the log, staring out into the stillness of the forest, the floor littered with leaves that are starting to turn with the season, pale shards of moonlight piercing the canopy where the branches are balding. Idly you think about how you’ll need to acquire warmer clothing soon, and then you glance down at your belly and wonder when you’ll be in need of a wider waistband.

With two months’ gone, you’re not showing – only you can tell much of the difference, the little curve of your belly, the cradle for a baby that is both wanted and unwanted in equal measures. At times like this, when you cannot sleep, you plot; there _has_ to be a way to undo what has been done. Another mage? Find another djinn? Ask the witch? There’s no clear answer to be had, only frustrations.

Behind you, you hear the sound of fallen twigs snapping beneath booted feet, and you turn your head. Geralt is ten feet away, leaning against a tree, watching you. You bite your lower lip and turn back to stare into the midnight tableaux of the trees.

“Forgive me,” Geralt’s deep voice is even rougher than usual, gritty from lack of use, “I saw you leave your tent, and I… had to see that you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” You reply, curtly, twisting the cloak in your hand. After a moment, you can’t help yourself. “…How are _you?_ ”

He makes a grunt, surprised at the question, and you hear him shift his weight. “I’m…” A deep sigh filters from his lips. “ _Tired._ But sleep won’t grant me mercy. I suppose I don’t deserve it.”

Something flares in you, and you realise it’s not the hex-mark at your back; it’s in your chest, your heart. He sounds so _defeated._ Turning your head again, with knitted brows and wide eyes, you shift a little on the log, patting the large space beside you. It’s a wordless invitation, and he’s quick to take it, although he doesn’t crowd you; he perches as far away as he can, companionable without demanding any comfort.

For a time, you sit like that; you watch a fox dart in-and-out of shadow, hunting a squirrel that is too clever to be caught. An owl breezes overhead on silent wings, knifing through the air. There’s not much of a wind, but you clutch your cloak tightly around you regardless. The space between you is no more than two feet, but it somehow feels too far and too close at the same time. Just altogether _wrong_.

“What do witches take as payment?” You finally ask, and your voice feels like a shout in the stillness, although it’s hardly a whisper. He murmurs, frowning, thinking.

“It depends. Some of them simply want coin. Some of them will barter for exotic goods. Monster parts, rare herbs – that kind of thing. Some of them, though…” He looks down at his hands, “They want nothing from mortals, human or Witcher. I cannot say what this witch will want.”

“We should be taking more jobs for coin. Verra has been practising her trade when we’re in town, as has Jaskier, but my own purse is running light. We cannot take of them for much longer.” You point out; the three horses need to be fed and shod, your supplies need to be replenished when you hit a decent city, and Geralt trades for the strange ingredients that make up his elixirs. It’s costly.

“I can take jobs.” Geralt gruffly agrees, “Small ones. Ones that won’t take longer than one day or one night. Wraiths, or wolves, bears…”

“Oh, _that’ll_ have us rolling in coin. Come on, Geralt. I’m not suggesting we hunt down wyverns, but I can have your back—”

“No.” He grunts, casting his golden gaze side-long at you, “You’re too… important. I cannot _risk_ you in any way.”

You scoff at him. “I am not a fragile porcelain teacup, now that I’m with-child. Not yet, anyway. I have plenty of fight.”

“I don’t want to risk it.”

“And **I** do! I won’t have Verra—”

You’re cut off when he shushes you, his eyes narrowed as he peers into the woods, seeing so much more than you could possibly imagine with his enhanced eyesight. You make a noise of protest, but he quietens you again, stricter this time, and you squint to see what he is seeing, curious as to the potential threat – although his hand isn’t on the hilt of his sword.

A long moment passes of silence that seems to yawn forever, until something strikes his eyes; it’s the sun’s promise of warmth after a winter’s storm, the welcoming flame of a lighthouse; his expression is incredulous, and it makes you more anxious.

“Geralt, what is—”

“I-I can _hear it._ ” He mutters, so low that you can barely make out the words. You frown.

“Hear what? Do I need to wake Verra and Jaskier?”

Slowly, he turns to regard you; his eyes upon yours set the fragile kindling surrounding your wounded heart ablaze, and your breath hitches with the pure reverence he’s bestowing upon you with that molten stare, as though you are the divinity that will save him in this lifetime. “The baby.” His voice is a brush again, “I can _hear_ … the baby’s heartbeat.”

You freeze up, rigid, your gaze deadlocked with his. You only remember to breathe when your lungs begin to burn, and then it’s a jagged stutter of an inhale, as your hand runs down to your stomach, unbidden.

“I thought—it’d sound _human_ , rapid, like most unborn babes. But there’s… it’s _so unique._ It’s somehow slower, like…”

“ _Like yours_.” You finish for him, the emotion thick in your words. He nods, just the smallest of movements, and you feel yourself rocked by this. You’ve carried this baby for nearly nine weeks now, and there’s been something of a detachment; you’ve felt sick, and burdened, and hormonal. You’d not really deeply considered that there was life within you – a life that was both of your body, and Geralt’s. A child that should not exist, except in an exceptional circumstance. There had been no _time_ to consider the reality of it – or perhaps you were protecting yourself. But this baby is real; it’s _real,_ beating heart and all, and you are bearing it.

He watches the emotions flicker across your face like a disturbed candle-flame, and he puts one hand out, still not too close. “Y/N? Are you…?”

You don’t know if he was going to ask _‘okay’_ , don’t know what his sentence might have lead to, because you lunge across the gap that divides you and kiss him. There’s no surprise or hesitation on his part; he accepts you wholly, guiding you into his lap when you climb for it, matching heat with heat; you can taste his longing, feel the love in the way he grazes the bounce of your lower lip with his teeth, hear the shuddering groan of complete connection that you mirror with your own. He feels like _home_ , like the missing words to a song you’d once sung, like everything might be alright if you could just fracture time with your fists and live in this broken sliver forever.

When you part for air, his eyes are half-lidded, and your hands have knotted into the fabric of his shirt. You trade hot breaths in the closeness between you; the mark at your back glows with a languid, pleasurable warmth, and you feel the wildness tug at you, _begging_ you to return to his embrace again and never stray. After a long moment of luxuriating in the feeling, it’s inevitably that hex-heat that forces you to step away from him. It’s even harder this time, and he has to jerk his hands back to his sides so he’ll stop reaching out for you.

“I’m—I’m _trying_ to…” You begin, but he shakes his head.

“You… have all the time you need. I am not going anywhere. I will wait _forever,_ if you bid me to.” His voice is sandstone, and he looks so undone and beautiful that you have to war fiercely with yourself not to return to his strong embrace. Instead, you nod, and head back to the tent, forcing your feet forward.

Your body is flushed and your lips are tingling. This time, when you climb back onto your bedroll, your sleep comes easily and dreamlessly.

—————–

“You did _**what?!**_ ” Verra hisses, tugging your hair on purpose as she braids it.

“ _Ow!_ Look, it was… just a kiss, okay? It doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t—”

“Oh no, don’t you tell me it doesn’t _mean anything_ , missy.” The younger girl scolds, tying your hair off with a strip of leather. “You’ve barely said two words to him since we left the brothel, and now you’re suddenly… _smoochy friends?_ ”

“He sat with me after my nightmare. He… he heard the baby’s _heartbeat._ ” The memory brings a smile to your lips, just a touch.

“Well… Gods be good that the babe is healthy, but you… you’ve got that _look_ about you.” She kneels, and takes your hands. “Listen. I love you, okay? I don’t want to have to try to murder a Witcher if he hurts you again.” You make a noise of amusement, and she smirks. “What? I _would._ ”

“I know you’d try, Ver’. Which is why I promise I won’t take things too far until I feel like… it’s right. Not because the hex tells me – only if… **I** feel it. And I know that _he_ feels it.” She seems satisfied with your answer, because she rises, starting to pack up her bedroll.

“I think we should let him ride up alone, today.” She chirps, tying the bundle securely, “Jaskier says he’s written another song, and I should like to hear it. What say you we give him a chance to ride behind with us and prove to me that I should stop spitting in his food portions?”

“Verra!” You scold, “You haven’t!”

She laughs uproariously. “No, I’ve not. …Just in Geralt’s.”

—————–

Geralt puts up no protest when you poach Jaskier from his side. You suspect he’ll be grateful for the quiet, actually. As you cover over the firepit ashes, the two of you share a glance; it’s only a few moments, but time melts away at the command of his stare, and you know you’re both thinking of the night before. You wet your lips, his eyes dart to them; you tear yourself from the moment and continue packing up.

Once on the road, Jaskier is eager to earn his place with, as he puts it, _‘the people that actually talk’_ ; you feel a little guilty when you realise how truly starved for human contact he’s been, and you make an effort to engage in his more benign questions. Verra pokes him in the shoulder if he rides too close, and Bolt isn’t keen on his horse – a gelding that you have yet to learn the name of, but as far as your mount is concerned, he’s direct competition for Roach’s affections. The mare, meanwhile, suffers neither horse; _she_ eats first, _she_ gets the pick of apples and carrots, and she is not afraid to bite if they are displeasing her in some manner. She’s still strangely protective of you; sometimes she’ll slow in order to glance behind her, to make sure you’re still following.

A couple of days pass easily like this; the weather is fair, and the road isn’t rough. By day three you note that Verra is letting Jaskier do as he pleases in regards to riding, and although it’s difficult to tell, you feel she might be flirting with him – and he with her. It doesn’t make much sense to you, considering you’re both aware of the bard’s preferences, but it’s entertaining to watch anyway.

“The problem,” Jaskier is enthusing, “Is that not a lot _rhymes_ with Goddess. And how else is one to describe your presence, Verra?” He sighs dramatically. “It feels… insulting to use a different term.”

The younger girl giggles, and rolls her eyes. “How often does that one win you favour with maidens, bard? Free wine, food, lodgings?”

“ _All_ the time.” He confesses, his grin roguish, and you choke on a snort.

“Once he tried to flirt with a bar-maid – must have been just a hair shorter than Geralt, and by the Gods her shoulders were _almost_ as wide. She actually **threw** him out of the inn. Picked him up like he was a–” You’re grinning as you recall the tale, and Jaskier is clearing his throat to try and gain your attention, begging with huge sky-struck eyes. “–uh _hhh._ I mean, _aaaall_ the time. He’s irresistible.”

Verra laughs again, and you enjoy the sound of it; the two of you are the best of friends, but you’re not often the greatest company, given your circumstances. You’re pleased you agreed to let Jaskier ride with you; both of them deserve joy.

Often your eyes wander to the solitary figure of Geralt in front of you, tracing the lines of his body obsessively, lost in the memory of his touch and the scent of him and the feel – Gods, the _feel_. It’s been far too long without him. Sometimes you’re caught in a daydream – _Geralt between your thighs, the brush of his stubble on your cunt as he devours you hungrily, flicking the button of your clit with strokes of his tongue –_ when one of your two companions asks for your opinion, and you’re caught out in a red-faced flush. They always exchange a knowing glance, but say nothing.

After a week of rough camping, you are in need of supply restock and a decent night’s rest in an inn; Geralt navigates to a town large enough that you won’t be gawked at like exotic pets, but small enough that nobody is in danger of getting lost. You find the best looking establishment and see your mounts stabled. As Verra is instructing the hand on how best to deal with each animal – that is to say, let Roach get her way, keep Bolt nose-deep in feed and there will be no trouble – you enter the inn to speak with the keeper.

“Have you four rooms, sir?” You ask of him, withdrawing your pouch of gold. It’s no longer heavy, but you know you have enough for this luxury. And your sweet friend isn’t with you to debate.

“Aye, ma'am, we do. Gettin’ colder on the roads. We’re seein’ less people come through. Happy to accommodate you.” He smiles, displaying a mouthful of age-yellowed teeth, and you return the gesture, shaking out the money.

“Excellent. We’d have baths drawn, please – one for each room. Not at the same time; I don’t wish to overtax your staff.”

“No bother, ma'am, honest.” He counts out the coin, “They’ve been idling about. Need something to do. I’ll see to it.”

You thank him, and return outside to your friends – _and Geralt_ – and lean on the stable door-jamb. “I’ve secured us rooms,” You announce, “And baths.” Both Jaskier and Verra squeal with delight, and even Geralt grunts in appreciation. Both men go to their coin-pouch, presumably to pay you, and you hold up your hand. “No, I won’t accept coin. Tonight is on me. We actually _relax._ ”

“Do they have a room with a large bed? Oh, it’s not that I don’t love your feet in my face, top-to-toe, Y/N, but–”

Leaning forward, you press your finger against Verra’s plush lips, and she childishly licks your finger. You wrinkle your nose. “ _Grubby little_ … no, I am unsure of the bed situation. But I am sure that I just paid for four rooms.”

“Y/N!” Her protest is immediate, and she looks as though you’ve deceived her in some wretched manner, glaring. “ **No.** We will take three rooms.”

“Verra.” You turn the full weight of your stare upon her, hands on your hips, and narrow your eyes. “If I dotted beneath your eyes with painter’s white, I’d have a beautiful night sky. That is how dark the shadows are becoming. You need _uninterrupted rest,_ and by the Gods, if you fight me on this matter, you’ll be fighting a pregnant, tired, and hungry mercenary. Are you _sure_ you want to do that?”

She stares you down for a long moment, and then heaves a sigh so exaggerated that it puts Jaskier to shame. “Fine! _Fine._ I will take the room. But I take the one next door to you. And if I hear so much as a _squeak_ in the night, it’ll be my feet in your face, in your bed.”

Gods, you love her. “I accept these terms.” You murmur, and pull her to your chest in a hug, nosing her pretty curls. Jaskier, who is still unhitching bags, glances meaningfully at Geralt, who grunts.

“Not happening, bard.” He mutters, undoing the buckles of Roach’s saddle.

“Aw.” Verra chirps, when you release her; she wraps her arms around Jaskier, who startles for a moment, before returning the embrace. “There. We _all_ deserve a hug. Well, _most_ of us.”

Geralt doesn’t even pause in his work. He’s well used to your best friend’s ire by now; in fact, he’s probably surprised she hasn’t attempted to murder him in the small snatches of sleep that he does claim.

Jaskier spins Verra in a small circle, and she squeaks gleefully; he wraps one arm around her, and one around you, directing you towards the inn. “What say you we leave Captain Grunts-a-Lot to the horses, and fill our bellies, hmm? Y/N was kind enough for the beds, so food is on me.”

“And wine!” The smaller girl chirps, and you have to grin.

“You’re gonna be down some coin, if you’re to keep her sated with drink.” You tell Jaskier, and Verra doesn’t even try to reject your claim, simply shrugging.

“ _Any_ bard worth his salt could out-drink a courtesan.” He boasts, as you step inside and locate a table.

“Is _that so?_ ” Unwittingly, he’s thrown down a gauntlet; you realise what your night is turning into, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be hilarious or a disaster. Either way, you cannot stomach ale or wine; you favour juice at the moment. At least someone will be sober to recall their antics, come morning, and perhaps it’ll be good material to use in banter-taunt on the road.

—————–

It’s solid gold material.

“Nooo, nono _nono._ ” Jaskier is defending himself, “It’s _cheating_ if you show your beautiful breasts. If I– if I am to lift my shirts, I don’t get coin thrown. I get smacked in my face.”

“You’re just jealous that I’m _prettier_ than you.” Verra slurrs, tying the laces of her dress, giggling.

“Take that back.” He points a finger at her. She leans forward, and bites it. “Fuck! Y/N, your… friend, she’s… _wild._ ”

“I know.” You agree, amused, wetting your lips with freshly squeezed orange juice.

“ _Crazy,_ darling!” Verra trills, standing up; the men in the tavern cheer, expecting another display of public lewdness, but instead she plonks herself in Jaskier’s lap, much to their low-muttering disappointment. “Nuts, insane… I’ve been called many a name. _So_ many.”

You watch as he holds her in his lap, and drains the rest of his cup. She does the same, knowing she must match him. Across the room, your eyes locate Geralt; they do this often, and sometimes he catches you, sometimes he does not. You suspect he always knows when you’re looking, though. He’s spent much of the night nursing the same two pints of ale, after having his fill of food.

“So if it’s a competition of coin, then I must participate. Where is my lute?” The bard bounces Verra in his lap a little.

“I _sold it_ for more wine.” She deadpans, and throws back her head in wild laughter at the expression on his face. Concerned that Jaskier might have a heart attack, you nudge him under the table, gesturing to the instrument at his feet.

“Liar,” The bard accuses, holding her so she won’t tumble as he bends down to fetch the lute, “It’s right here.”

“So it is.” She agrees, batting her eyelashes, “Maybe I just _dreamt_ that I sold it, so you’d stop your caterwauling…”

Even with her in his lap, he strums a few chords, testing the sound; again, the tavern is interested, patrons glancing over. He takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.

“ _When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this song…”_

Although he’s drunk, his voice is rich and beautiful, and it’s a crowd favourite. People begin to cheer, and turn in their seats. You, however, have heard the ballad enough times in your life. Either that or you can’t stand to hear how _wonderful_ the Witcher is, as confused as your feelings are. You squeeze Verra’s hand, and stand up, excusing yourself. She doesn’t notice, enthralled with Jaskier’s singing, and you’re warmed by her relaxed and radiant expression. She’ll sleep well tonight.

Climbing the stairs, you hear feet behind you, and turn at the top of the landing. Geralt is ascending them behind you, and he pauses to give you space, frowning.

“Forgive me, I just… can’t _stand_ to hear that song, and I think Jaskier would be angered if I threw his lute into the fireplace.”

You can’t help but smile, and you raise your shoulders in a shrug. “You’re free to retire when you wish, Geralt. You don’t need my blessing.” You wish your voice wouldn’t _waver_ so! He grunts, and you walk down the hallway to your room, opening the door. A bath is being readied for you, steamy-hot and perfumed, and you almost purr at the sight of it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” The Witcher’s low voice catches your attention, and you glance at him across the hallway, standing at his own door.

“Rest well, Geralt.” You reply, and close the door, unable to meet his eyes as you do so.

—————–

When you jolt awake with a gasp, your throat isn’t raw from screaming; the nightmare still lingers, flashes of Yennefer’s eyes and her clawed hands entwined with Geralt’s; a bundle of baby snatched from your arms as you try to scream, finding yourself soundless; the screech of some monster a horrific background soundtrack. You blink hard, controlling your breath, your hand quivering as you light the lantern at your bedside.

The door creaks quietly, and you don’t look up. “Come now, Verra, there’s no _danger._ How did you even hear–”

“It’s me.” Geralt’s voice cuts you off, and you whip your gaze to the door where he stands; plain black breeches keep him decent, though his chest is bare. He’s clean and his hair is combed beautifully, indicating the fact that he’s bathed, and suggesting he’s not slept much. “Are you alright?”

“Just… the nightmare again.” You whisper, reaching for water to wet your lips; your throat has gone dry at the sight of him, gorgeous in the low-light flame, even as exhausted as he looks. “I’ll be fine.”

He grunts, and nods, hesitating at the door. You see the knit of muscle at his back, the stress his shoulders have been carrying; you recall his warmth, skin-on-skin, and the security of his huge arms around you. “ _Wait._ ” You say, as he takes a step to exit; he pauses, and looks at you questioningly. You suddenly feel shy, and look down at your hands, picking at the bedspread. “I’d, um… I’d feel _better._.. I think, if you… stayed.”

There’s no challenge or query; he simply shuts the door and strides over to the armchair by the fire, lowering himself into it silently.

“No.” You correct; your voice is scarcely audible. “ _With_ me. Stay… _by_ me. I want to… feel that you’re here.”

His features soften, and this time he is hesitant; gracefully, like the enormous predator he is, he rises from the chair and slips under the sheets as you lift them for him, wriggling over to make room. The contact of his warm skin on your own makes you shiver, and you turn, pressing your back to him, feeling him surround your senses and comfort the ache in your chest, and at your lower back. He doesn’t move, so you take his hand, and pull it around you; it slots beneath your breasts, at your belly, where he used to cuddle you, and it feels so _right_ that both of you make a sound of contentment. Carefully, he shifts, and holds you as he once did, chastely, your protector, your mate; fatigue washes over you like a waterfall, and even if you wanted to linger in the moment, you can’t. You’re asleep in seconds.

Geralt breathes the scent of your hair, marvels at the feel of you against him once more, tries to squash down the flames of hope that are sparking higher and higher. Despite all of this, he can’t fight any longer, either; he joins you in rest, a deep slumber that holds no fears or the haunt of nightmares. That night, there is peace.


	8. Part Eight - Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You awaken to many mixed feelings and a confronting discussion that had to be made. Verra and Jaskier have amusing hangovers. To move forward, you all need to do more than just travel.

It’s a designated lazy day.

You’ve lucked out on a decent inn, and you’re drifting in that peaceful place that exists between consciousnesses; the mist of dream swirls in your senses, fragile fragments that become fleeting if you focus on them. You are dimly aware of Geralt’s even, slow breath; in your dozy state, though, you’re _far_ more aware of his body.

You’re aware that you were roused by some conjured scene you can’t recall, but it must have been good, because the curve of your ass is grinding slowly against Geralt’s impressive erection. He’s holding your hip steady, your nightgown riding up 'round your waist; at some point you must have thrown a leg behind and over him to open yourself up, and you are so wet that you can feel it seeping into the fabric of his pants. He moans lowly, pulling you tighter, rocking the blunt head of his clothed cock over your slick, and the fizz of pleasure explodes within you. Two things happen; you mewl with desire, tangling your fingers in his hair; secondly, and more importantly, you both fully wake up. The cruel sting of reality and awareness bitch-slaps across your faces.

It’s _not_ some day off on one of your adventures – you’re in the middle of a dire quest to undo a hex, and you’re pregnant with a child promised to another, and you’re still not sure if you’ve even _forgiven_ the man who shared your bed last night. The man you were just _rutting against_ like an animal in heat. He’s completely frozen, his muscles as tight as your own; the sexual tension between you is actually painful, and not only physically.

“I’m _so sorry_ —” He blurts,

“ _Forgive me,_ I—” You begin at the same time.

Nervously, you both laugh, and he clears his throat. “I guess we... should have anticipated something like this happening.” You nod dumbly, as his hand slides down your bare leg, moving to unwrap it from where you’ve flung it across his body.

“W-wait.” You force out, as the heat at your cunt cries and flares; you can feel him throbbing thickly at the plush flesh of your behind. Your toes curl. “I-it’s been... so _long_ , and I...” You can feel your blood flushing your face and the skin of your chest, “I-I _need_...”

“I don’t know... if that’s a _good idea._ ” He murmurs, his voice low. You feel rejection snap through you like the bite of a whip, and you turn your head from his. “Please, Y/N, it’s not that I don’t want you, too. Fuck, I _want_ you. I just... want you to... be _sure._ ”

You move your head back to catch his gaze; you’re vulnerable, spread open for him, and he’s maintaining impressive control considering your lewd, offering position, and the fact that you’ve already drenched the crotch of his breeches. His golden eyes are soft and concerned, and you frown, weighing up his words. Maybe he’s right; you’re confused, he’s worn-out, and you’ve both woken up like this. Maybe it’s just _lust_ , and there’s no real depth. But then he shifts his leg just slightly, unintentionally brushing your desperate cunt, and you hiss, arching your back to get the most out of the contact.

“Gods, **fuck,** ” You whimper, unable to resist the grind of your hips against the strength of his thigh and his dick, the friction thrilling through your hormonal and sex-starved body. He makes a low growl, and shudders, rocking into you automatically, burying his face in your hair so he can breathe you in. You utterly _snap_. “Been... so long, you feel... _so good_ , fu _uuck,_ ” You pant, twisting one fist in the sheets and tightening the one in his snowy hair, tugging the roots.

“Can’t... fuck, _can’t stop._ **Tell** me... you want me to _stop._ ” Geralt grits out, groaning when you only increase the speed of your little thrusts, shifting your body so your begging cunt is slipping up and down the cloth of his crotch, directly over his cock. You’re making little gasps of pleasure, and you’re both trembling.

“ _Don’t stop,_ ” You beg, “ **Please** , don’t _stop_ , I—oh, _fuck, Geralt!_ ”

You’re so wildly pent-up from weeks of frustration that your orgasm washes over you with barely any effort, starting as a slow clenching pulse in your cunt that crescendos into a peak that has you writhing and moaning, your puffy slit dripping on him; he’s helpless to do anything but blindly follow you into climax, and you feel the rhythmic throb of his dick as he grips you, making a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl, streams of his thick come soaking through the already slick fabric to wet your ass with his heat. Both of you are caught in the moment, the release of it, and it feels like an age before the feeling starts to ebb, leaving you both messy and sated in the dizzying afterglow as you trade little nuzzles, catching your breath.

He opens his mouth, and you release his head so you can stick your finger in it. “Don’t you _dare_ apologise for that,” You purr, because you know he wants to, “I needed you so much. _Gods._ ”

His lips close around your finger as he sucks it gently, before releasing it, half-a-smile pulling at his lips. He looks lighter somehow, relaxed, and you want to isolate this moment from everything that has happened to both of you and make a home here, free from the horrors of the world. “I needed you, too. I will _always_ need you. You are everything that is good about me.”

Slowly, you withdraw your leg from around him so you can get more comfortable, rolling your body – never-mind the wet spot you’ve made – facing him, stroking his cheek with reverent fingertips. “You don’t see yourself at all, do you?” You ask him, and he grunts, questioning. “The way you save others without regard for your own safety. The way you protect those that have earned your trust. The _lengths_ you will go to help people that may not deserve mercy.” Your words have struck a conflict in him; you see the war in his precious gaze. “ **You** are the good about you, Geralt. All by yourself. I’m just...” You bite your lip. “Well, lucky, or an _idiot._ It depends on which area of my life you choose to focus upon.”

He chuckles darkly at your attempt at humour, resting his large hand at the curve of your waist, gently stroking the skin there. “I feel as if I don’t deserve to be sharing your bed.” He admits, his vulnerability a rarity. “I... made a _promise_ to you, and I broke it.”

A long silence descends, as you both consider the events of the past. The sun is climbing, and you suspect it’s the middle of the morning. You’re hungry, but you’re reluctant to leave this confessional, this shelter where things have the potential to be confronted and resolved. When you speak, your words are careful. “How did it... feel? With _her._ How could you...?”

The torture lights up on his face again, and he breaks your gaze. “I swear I will apologise to you until the end of—”

You shake your head, interrupting. “Forgive me, _no,_ that’s not... _not_ what I meant at all. I meant, when she made that wish. What was it like? What... _happened?_ ” Gods, you almost don’t want to hear, but you know that to truly heal, you must. You blink hard, forcing composure.

He hesitates. “I... will tell you the entire truth. You deserve to know. When the roof collapsed and she had us teleported to safety, there was this... fuzziness. I could only see _her._ I went to her immediately, touching her; she responded, and I realised quickly that something was awry. That’s when I began to fight. Every time she... _moved,_ I’d try to move away. But resisting gave it more power somehow. I thought about casting a sign, making a light fixture fall upon her, but my arms became leaden. I thought about you, and then I **could not** think about you – I didn’t want to draw your memory into the situation, to taint it like that. I struggled, and pain began to claw at my mind. I couldn’t escape it. So I...” He winces, and his eyes close. “I stopped _fighting_ it. I gave into her. The sooner I did, the sooner it was over.”

You’re crying now as you listen, silent tears that track your cheeks and soak the pillow. Has he cursed you to carry this child for another woman, or was he _really_ trying to save her? Something clicks inside you, something repaired; you realise with a startling clarity that he has suffered, too. Not in the same way as you – but suffering is suffering. There's no contest or victor. He’s endured a different cruelty, but heedless of the manner, it was _unjust_. You realise that truly it was not him that betrayed you – it was the mage, a woman you’d never even _met_. To her, you’re just a means to an end. To her, so was _he_.

“I should have fought her until—should have fought _harder,_ should have—” He’s muttering, and you wrap your arms around him, drawing him close as you sob into his shoulder.

“Geralt,” You whisper, “I _**beg**_ your forgiveness.”

He cradles you, and grunts; you can feel him shaking his head. “What am I to forgive you for?”

“For not listening. For leaving you to your _torment_ , all these weeks. She—she **used** you, as she is using me. Your only crime is misguided trust. How can I hate you for mercy? Gods, Geralt, I’m _so sorry._ ” Your tears bleed into his bare skin, and he rocks you, holding you close.

“I shoulder this blame, Y/N.” He mutters, “I should suffer it alone.”

“You should _not,_ ” You correct, pulling away to grasp his face, “And you _will_ not.” You must look a sight, tear-stained and post-orgasmic; a bizarre combination. But he smiles faintly. “I swear to all the Gods that I will find a way to keep our child, Geralt. And I swear I’ll do it by your side. She will _pay_ for the hurt she’s dealt you.”

He looks incredulous, but he can’t keep his hands off you, as if you might vanish; his rough fingers trace your features, the lines of your body, the wisps of your hair. He thumbs your tears away. He cannot comprehend the gravity of your forgiveness and your plea to be forgiven in turn; it makes no sense to him. You can see all of his. He needn’t say it. “I’ve _missed you._ ” He rasps instead, his voice thick.

“And I you. We can still... be slow with it all. I know that the rift she forced us to navigate does not close with one conversation. And I know that the hex... _complicates_ it all.” You bite your lower lip. “But I should like to ride with you, today. If you’ve desire for company.”

He murmurs, and nods his head slowly. “Only yours. I desire you beside me.”

“Then that is where I shall be.”

\------------------

The two of you clean up and break your fast like a pair of shy, flirting youths; there's a little bit of bumping into one another as you get used to being in each other's spaces again, a bit of _'after you, no I insist',_ a bit of uncertainty as to where to look when you bathe. But as you eat the hot meal prepared for you, you lapse into companionable silence, and it's soothing.

Neither Jaskier nor Verra have emerged from their rooms to eat, and although you suspect they are both nursing brutal hangovers after last night's delve into drunken competition, the sun is climbing ever-higher, and you're losing daylight hours to ride. Eventually you both decide that rolling them out of bed and dealing with their complaining is a better fate than waiting for them to stumble downstairs.

You knock on Verra's room as Geralt goes to find Jaskier. You're met with silence, and you frown, trying the handle; unlocked, you swing the door open to find a neatly made bed and a wasted bath, stone-cold now. Concern grips you immediately. “Geralt!” You call, “Verra's not in her room. The bed hasn't a wrinkle.”

He seems unfazed; fixing you with an amused stare, he motions for you to come closer. You're bristling, wanting him to take this disappearance seriously, until you stand beside him at the entrance to Jaskier's room, the door wide open.

This bath has most _definitely_ been used – abused, perhaps, considering the puddles of water still on the floor – and there are clothes and coins and bedsheets flung about the room as if a hurricane had manifested solely in the small quarters. On the double bed, Jaskier lays on his back, snoring; Verra's tell-tale flame curls are spilt across his chest as she dozes, a pile of blankets heaped across them for warmth. You snort loudly, and cover your mouth.

“The world is a continual surprise.” Geralt drawls, leaning against the jamb. You nod, wide-eyed, very curious as to how this eventuated. And really, there's only one way to find out.

“Daylight is burning! **Wake up** , you wastrels!” You shout, bending over to pick up Jaskier's abandoned lute, strumming it tunelessly. The bodies on the bed groan and shift, and you snicker. “ _Get up._ We're to leave in an hour--” Your thought is disarmed and sent in a different track as a third head pokes out from the sheets; a man with tousled blonde hair and bleary dark eyes. Both of your eyebrows are raised so high that your forehead hurts. Geralt snorts; he'd have scented the third party, and he's clearly taking his amusement from your expression.

“Wha _aat?_ ” Verra asks you, rubbing her face; her curls are a disaster, and her lips are still wine-reddened. She looks at Jaskier, who colours slightly, and then at the mystery man, who bids her good morning with an enthusiastic grin. Grunting, she pushes herself up, shamelessly naked as a newborn lamb, and picks up somebody's shirt to wriggle into.

“With Jaskier? _Really?_ ” You hiss lowly, and she shrugs unabashed, giggling.

“He was there, I was there, and so was... Matthias? Mm _m...arc._ M--”

“Kaen.” The blonde supplies, and she makes a lazy gesture.

“I know, I know, I was just _teasing_ you. Thanks for the ride.” She tips an imaginary hat as if she were a nobleman, and heads towards her room, taking up your hand, walking with the pronounced roll of her hips that only she can pull off after being discovered in such a compromising position. “ _I didn't know,_ ” She winks at you, and you roll your eyes, “Men should just have _one_ name. It'd be easier for me, y'know?”

You look over at Geralt, and point at Verra. “I'll take care of this one. Can you... I don't know, reassemble Jaskier?”

He grunts, looking at the two men in the room; Kaen is gathering his things, apparently ready to make a sneaky escape. Jaskier looks exhausted and mildly bewildered. “I'll make sure he has pants on.” The Witcher guarantees, and you tug Verra into her quarters before anyone else sees the lovely full moon of her rear for free.

“The bath is cold, but I suggest you... freshen up.” You point at the tub, as you start to gather her things and find her something to wear. “Must have been quite an evening.”

“I won the contest. I _think._ Or perhaps Jaskier did? In any case, that Pietro fellow--”

“Kaen.” You correct, as she makes a noise.

“Whatever. He was a fan of Jaskier's music, so we all came up for a nightcap, and _whoops!_ You know how it is.” She squeaks at the chill of the water, but begins to wash up anyway.

“Actually, I _don't_ know how it is.” You inform her, your tone light, “I've seen much of your trade, Verra, but not that much. How does one just... _whoops_ with someone they've been on the road with for over a month? Especially when that someone fancies the company of men?”

“He likes both, it turns out!” Verra chirps, accepting the glass of water you pour her, “Truthfully, I think he had no idea. Perhaps he only fancies a few women. Perhaps it was the wine.” She gulps the liquid, and shrugs her delicate shoulders. “The mysteries of life.”

“Verra, you can't just _fuck Jaskier_ and tell me it's _'the mysteries of life!'_ ” Thrusting a towel at her, you begin to untangle the mess of her hair. “You two have been flirty for days now. Do I need to have a talk to him about treating you well?”

She laughs, as she towels herself off. “It's _me_ you should have that talk with, Y/N. Come now. If anyone is going to be broken-hearted, it's him.”

“Well, then.” You begin to button up her travel-dress at the back when she wriggles into it, “He's my friend, too. If you break his heart... I'll be forced to...” Pausing, you have no idea which side you'd take, if indeed it was wise to take sides at all, “...listen to whatever _song_ he writes about you, I suppose.”

“I hope he depicts me as a harpy.” She claps her hands together. “Ooh, or a sea-witch. _The Ballad of The Sea Witch._ That sounds fun.”

You make a mental note to check in with Jaskier later, and finish packing her bag. “Fun, yes, alright.” Clearing your throat, you attempt to change your tone to nonchalant, as she eats fruit from a bowl by the tub. “Speaking of, you'll ride Jaskier's horse with him, today. I'm riding up front on Bolt, next to Geralt.”

“Why?” She asks, narrowing her precise chocolate gaze at you; you swear she can scan your very soul with those eyes when she wants to. “...Oh, _by the Gods_ , you fucked him.”

“I did **not!** ”

“You _did so!_ ” Her finger is an accusing point. “Oh, oh you _did so._ I can **see** it. You don't look as though you might strangle someone for breathing too loudly anymore. You _fucked_ him, and--”

“I didn't _fuck him!_ ” You snap, throwing one of her shoes. She ducks, and it hits the door. “We just... he slept in my bed, and...”

“ _And you_ _ **fucked**_ _him!_ ” She sings, too loud; you throw the other shoe. It hits her in the arm. “ _ **Ow!**_ ”

“And we did some _relieving_ things, yes. But most importantly, we slept, and we talked. About a lot of... misconceptions.” Casting your gaze at the bedspread, you sit, and trace your fingers along the pattern.

“You forgave him?” Verra's voice is a little incredulous, and you look up at her.

“I asked _him_ to forgive _me._ ”

She recognises how serious this is, retrieving her second boot by the door; she sits beside you to put them on. “Why would he forgive you? Shouldn't he be buying you rubies and sail-boats and have bruises on his knees, begging?”

Slowly, you shake your head. “He didn't want this either. Yennefer took his choice away from him, just as she took mine. I was so jealous and _angry_ and frightened that I couldn't even _see_ it.”

“But he's the one who gave her the wish!” Verra points out, buckling her shoe.

“To save her _life._ That's all he wanted to do. He didn't know who she was, or what she was capable of. If I hate him for his compassion – what does that make me?”

She's frowning, considering all of this new information, toying with the fetter on her boot. “I suppose... I can stop glaring at him. _A bit._ ” She relents, and you smirk.

“We're still figuring it all out, taking our time. I think it's less about me forgiving him, and more about him forgiving _himself._ That's truly what is going to make this... difficult to navigate.”

“But you think it's the right thing to do? To try and move past it all?” Her voice is sweet, and you nod.

“I do, yes. And I think I feel it... in my heart. My mind. I _don't_ feel it through the hex.” You worry your lip between your teeth. “At least, I am _fairly_ sure. When that's gone, though – then maybe both of us will be afforded further clarity.”

She hums, before throwing her arms around you. “But **I'm** still the love of your life, right?”

You have to laugh, returning her embrace. “Naturally. ...Verra, how are you not hungover?”

Standing, she grabs her bags. “I'm talented, darling. You should know that by now.”

“I really should.” You mutter, following her sashay out the door.

\------------------

Jaskier and Geralt do not look as though they have talked much out. In fact, the Witcher is staring out a window, deep in thought, and the bard is trying to fit the remainder of a breakfast sandwich sideways into his mouth. When you sit and add your bags to the pile, Verra grabs up some bacon, and Jaskier makes no complaint.

“Where do we ride from here?” You question, helping yourself to some of the fresh juice on the table.

“North. A slight detour, actually. Maybe a week's travel at the most, if we need to stop.” He's accounting for your occasional sicknesses, and you smile faintly. “There's talk of a rock troll that has relocated near a farming settlement, and is causing trouble.”

You perk up, interested; this is the first he's spoken of actual monster hunting in a long time. “The bounty?” Your query; it has to be decent, to have earned his attention.

“Large. Which tells me that it's an old, cantankerous thing that we won't be able to reason with. It also tells me that it'll be dangerous, which is why you,” He points at you; you puff up, ready to defend, to tell him that you're capable of battle, “Will be _following my lead,_ and Jaskier and Verra will be staying at camp.”

He's trusting you. Letting you in, even a little; you're not something to be guarded, his charge, his cargo. You're his _mate._ You feel like you're glowing, and you grin.

“Ohhh _hhh_.” Jaskier pipes up, mouth full of bread as he looks between the Witcher and you, “You two _fucked_ last night, didn't you? Oh Gods, you _so--_ _ **ooof!**_ ”

Unlike your talk with Verra, this one ends with the bard receiving a swift elbowing to his midsection, courtesy of Geralt.

You try to hide your smile in the rim of your cup.


	9. Part Nine - Connected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re on the hunt for the troll to collect a bounty that will pay for your continued travels. Your relationship with Geralt begins to knit back together. You have a much needed talk with the bard. Jaskier and Verra are cute idiots.

“And if it swings at you in a _left_ attack, you—”

“Will dodge to the left, because it’s most likely a feint, and the actual attack will come from the _right_. Geralt, I know. We’ve been going over this for _three days_ now.” You’re trying to keep irritation from your tone.

He grunts, and pokes at the soil at the ground with a stick. “I know. I’m sorry, it’s just… I need you prepared.”

“Hey,” You lay a hand on his arm, “The more you worry about me, the less focused you’ll be on the fight. I’ll have your back, and that’s _all,_ okay?”

“How do you know how it’s gonna attack?” Verra pipes up, sitting herself down in front of your campfire.

You’ve been on the road for just under a week; Geralt thinks that you’ll come across your target tomorrow, in the early afternoon. Most of your sickness has abated – thank the Gods – as you head towards the end of your third month with-child. It truly is the strangest thing; one evening, your stomach is fairly flat, the curve only noticeable to you, and the next morning, you swear it has popped out whilst you slept. When you dressed that day, you stared down at the little bump, struggling with the swim of tears in your eyes, before you hid it beneath a baggy tunic, unwilling to share it immediately.

You aren’t spending nights in a tent with Geralt, not yet; the two of you are a step more than companionable again, though. You often ride with him up front, exchanging small tales from your brief absence from one another; you fall into old habits of teasing him, or picking debris from his hair, or stealing a bite of his snack when you stop to give the horses a break. This has quickly escalated to stolen kisses, sly backside pinches, and, on more than one occasion, a short but heavy make-out session against a tree or by a lake when Verra and Jaskier are occupied with your mounts or their personal needs. Geralt is fairly good at looking composed after these risqué moments, but you think your flushed cheeks and goofy smile give you away. The squint Verra always deals you confirms your suspicions.

Meanwhile, she and Jaskier have become quite close travel companions. They behave less like courting youths and more like a competitive elderly married couple; you are often privy to their heated arguing over who has won the latest game they’ve invented, or Verra’s laughter when Jaskier tickles her, or lands a decently witty remark. When your best friend is not looking, you see the way the bard regards her, the soft fondness in his pale eyes, and you _try_ not to worry about them. Verra was right, back at that inn; if anyone is getting their heart eviscerated, it’s Jaskier.

There’s no repeat performance of whatever transpired in the inn-room they had shared; at night, you and Verra retreat to your sheltered bedrolls, and Jaskier and Geralt take turns keeping watch. When it’s time for you to sleep, you always linger at Geralt’s side, letting him take your hand, kiss your fingers, promise you that if the nightmares come, he’ll fight them away for you. Maybe it’s this promise that holds them at bay, for you begin to make it through nights without waking at all.

Now that you’re closing in on the troll, the Witcher is certainly more tense, perhaps reconsidering his decision to let you accompany him. It’s one of the reasons you hide your stomach from him, and patiently listen to his strategies, lending your opinion only when necessary. But this particular hunt – and this particular troll – have concerns that only he can address.

“Because going by his description, I believe I’ve fought him before.” Geralt answers Verra, still sketching in the sand. The marks look like runes, or ancient symbols.

“And he _won?_ ” Your friend of sunset-flame hair sounds incredulous.

“No.” The Witcher grunts, “He was able to be reasoned with, then. Now I fear that age or greed has returned him to old habits.”

“Is that why _you’re_ such a grumpy bear, Geralt?” Jaskier emerges from a small thicket of trees, carrying kindling. “Age and what-not? Are you going to set up in a cave someday and begin poaching livestock and crops?”

The Witcher makes a low sound, and affords Jaskier no answer. Verra has started peeling potatoes for supper, and you pick up a knife to help her.

“Trolls can speak, then? Why not tell him to fuck off again?” She asks.

“Some speak basic common. And I am guessing anyone that dared to converse with him has discovered his sour nature.” Geralt tosses the stick into the consuming fire.

“That is to say, they’re probably artfully mashed into the earth.” You helpfully supply, and Verra shudders.

“Glad it is not me going, then. We’ve a nice spot here. It’ll be nice to have a slow day. Read some of my book, beat Jaskier soundly at cards—”

“You wish to wager already, woman?” The bard challenges, and Verra puffs up like a broody chicken.

“I’m sure _both of you_ will cheat very well at cards tomorrow.” You de-escalate the situation, examining your potato; you’ve butchered it, more potato than skin laying at your feet, and you’re summarily shooed away from the job. “Jaskier? Walk with me, I think I saw some wild strawberries growing near the stream, and I’d like to see if any have ripened late.”

“It’s too close to autumn for berries.” He informs you, and you roll your eyes, grabbing his elbow. _Why are men so awful at understanding nonchalant cues_ , you wonder? You needn’t be so sensitive, really, because Geralt sees everything anyway.

“Don’t go far, love.” He murmurs, and you smile over your shoulder at him.

“I’ll scream if I’m being murdered.” You promise, swishing away with Jaskier.

“Not funny!” He calls after you, and you chuckle to yourself.

——————

The pair of you walk in silence for a time, admiring the late afternoon scenery; the forest is struck by the gold of the low sun, arrows of light piercing through gaps in the tree-trunks, and your booted feet scare away a pair of young deer. Once you feel you’re far enough away, you take a seat atop a boulder by the trickling river, as Jaskier pokes around in the dirt. Of course he’s right; all the berries have been taken by foraging animals by now, and it’s too cold for more to ripen.

“You need to speak to Geralt, Jas’.” You finally say, picking dirt from your fingernails. “I’ve forgiven him – why are you struggling to do the same?”

He frowns at you, those aquamarine eyes vivid, and he huffs out a hard sigh. “You weren’t there for all of it, Y/N. To see how she – that _mage_ – was. There was something dark about her from the start. He should have _seen_ it.”

“Maybe he did.” You muse, “But maybe he didn’t consider some darkness enough of an excuse to condemn a person to death.”

“His wish made my throat close up!” Jaskier exclaims.

“A wish made unknowingly – and because you wouldn’t give up the bottle to him, stubborn ass that you are!” You defend, “And then he did everything in his power to _save_ you.”

Jaskier glares at a small toadstool, before kicking at it with the toe of his boot, replaying the events in his head.

“He took chances with you, too, when you first met.” You remind him, “What use has a Witcher for a bard? But he still let you journey with him. And I know, _I know_ , you made him _famous,_ ” You’re in before he can begin the speech you’ve already heard, “And your song is a masterpiece, but you made _yourself_ famous, too. Could you have done that without him? Without him taking that chance?”

“Maybe.” He stubbornly retorts, plonking down to sit on a stone just below you.

“What happened – it’s awful. I must make peace with it every day. Gods, I carry it with me – quite _literally._ But Geralt, he carries it too. Yennefer robbed him of a choice, and she intends to rob us of our child. You must remember that. You must remember how stubbornly he shoulders burdens. I need you to be his _friend_ again, before he pushes you too far away, and you can’t reach him. If that happens… you’ll take the regret to your grave, I know it.”

It’s rare to lull Jaskier into silence, but here he is, contending with the gravity of your words. It takes him some time to look up at you, but when he does, there’s less frustration lining his face. “I’ll think about talking to him.” He promises, and you nod.

“Thank you, Jas’. You’re the best friend I have that is in possession of a penis. Oh, speaking of—” He looks amused at your description, tugging at one of your boot-laces “—you know that Verra… she’s not the type that will just… _settle down_ , right?”

“Who is saying I wish to settle down with her?” He’s defensive again, and you hold up your hands in surrender.

“No one. Not me. All I’m saying is it’s not just her hair that is of fire; that girl isn’t easily tamed. Nor should she be.” You lean down, and chastely kiss the bard’s chestnut mop. “So don’t get sulky if she practices her trade or exercises any other freedoms, okay?”

“Gods, Y/N. Put a baby in you and you become so _matronly_. Have you any other knives of wisdom to stake into my heart?” Dramatically, he presses a hand over his breast, and you swat at him. He ducks away.

“Watch it, or I’ll tell Verra to stop putting her hands down your pants when you ride together behind us.” Jaskier flushes crimson, and you burst into laughter. “Oh, I _knew it!_ Go on, get back to camp. Tell Geralt there’s too many berries and I need his hands to carry them.”

“What, so you can roll around in the strawberry patch and suck his face?” It’s your turn to colour, and he snorts in mirthful retort. “Hah! **I** knew it too.”

You bend to loose clods of dirt from the earth to huck at him, and he scampers to avoid your arsenal. You think you can hear him giggling all the way back to the camp, and you sigh. So much for trying to be subtle.

——————

Geralt appears quickly, wild of eye; he scans the area, regards your resting silhouette, and visibly relaxes. Your gaze is two parts coy and confused, and he strolls to your side, sitting cross-legged. “Jaskier said you were in need of rescue from a ‘berry monster’. I know of no such creature, but I…” He looks a little sheepish, and idly glances at the distant firelight from the camp. “ _Fuck._ I should fill his lute with mud.”

You grin, and abandon the boulder in favour of his lap; he readily accepts you, and you drape your arms around his shoulders. “You think I couldn’t handle the notorious Berry Beast of the north alone, then?” The tease of your voice brings the ghost of a smile to his lips, and you kiss the corners of them gently.

“Hmm.” He acknowledges, “I _do_ underestimate you, sometimes.”

“ _Some_ times?” You challenge, “Remember that time you said I couldn’t handle your mouth? That I’d _beg_ for mercy before your tongue tired? How many times did I come again…”

“Twenty-seven.” He informs you, his voice a scratch of tree-bark, lowered, “And I was so irritated that I took an elixir for stamina…”

“…And fucked me raw, brought the total to somewhere near forty.” You finish, biting your lower lip, remembering the three straight days you’d spent in that seaside inn. “I couldn’t _walk_ the next day. I was sore for a _week._ But Gods, was it worth it. _And_ I won.”

“I’d argue we both did, love.” He strokes a few strands of hair from your face; his eyes are desire-darkened, and you know if you rocked forward, you’d feel his erection press into you. You’re just as reactive; the way he regards you makes your breath hitch and coaxes a trickle of moisture at the apex of your legs. He draws a deep breath, scenting you, and moans softly. “What I would give to taste you now.” The rumble of his voice pebbles your nipples, makes you shiver.

“Jaskier and Verra… they’re too close.” You whisper, although you’re not moving away as his mouth lowers to your own.

“Then they can either watch, or cover their _damn ears._ ” He rasps, and claims your lips in a kiss that never had a chance at gentle; he’s heat and sex and need as he flicks your tongue, sucks the bounce of your bottom lip, swallows your whimpers. He kisses with purpose, lacking any playful laziness; you are there for him to consume, and you offer yourself to sate him as a willing sacrifice. When he parts from you, you’re gasping, and even he’s breathing deeply; he grips your hips, lifting you to a stand, and pushes you back against the boulder, kneeling.

The intent of his position makes your knees weak and your cunt squeeze with ache; your knickers are soaked beneath your breeches, and even if you could summon the will to be responsible, your body is calling to him, beckoning, and he intends to answer. He has enough presence of mind not to tear your clothing, unlacing your pants with haste and shuffling them only as low as he needs to spread your legs, making sure you’re on stable feet as he takes in the vision of your glistening lips, rubbing circles in worship at your hips, his cat-yellow eyes possessive and lustful in equal measures. It’s pure anticipation, and the fuckery of it makes you squirm, your bare ass brushing the rough rock behind you. A fresh wash of your arousal wets you, and it breaks him.

He grips your thighs with strong hands as he devours you, jealously sweeping his tongue in long strokes up your slit to collect what he can of your body’s offering, before he thrusts in you to fuck you with the muscle, the hard slant of his nose pressing into your aroused clit. You squeak out your pleasure, immediately tangling your hands in the winter of his hair, earning yourself a growl that vibrates up the column of your spine. He knows _exactly_ how to eat you out; where to curve his tongue, or press it, or create friction in a slow rub. In minutes he has you writhing against the boulder.

Your cries are getting louder, and you reluctantly depart one hand from his locks so you can bite into the meat of your thumb to silence yourself; apparently, this displeases him, because he uses his left hand to steady you, and inserts a thick finger into your cunt, curling it, the rough nerves inside of you kissing his calloused touch. Steadily he strokes you like this, one finger becoming two as his mouth is now free to encircle your clit in a suckle that he only interrupts with the flick of his tongue-tip.

You’re riding his face, the sweet pleasure building and building; your own hand is slick with your drool in your efforts to be quiet, but you can only take so much before you’re openly keening and moaning, employing that bitten hand to steady you against the stone instead. The other tugs at his hair, scratches his scalp the way you know he likes it, and your reward is a faster finger-fuck that has your inner thighs quivering, one of your tells.

“Geralt,” You whine, “ _Ger_ alt, _fuuu_ ck,” He rumbles into your pussy, but does not slow his attentions, “I’m going to _come,_ I’m _going to come,_ I’m—”

Your chant becomes a manifestation as you shudder in his grasp, crying out your pleasure with a geometric-arch of your back as your walls beg of his stroking fingers, clutching them in your orgasm, your muscles becoming too tight for him to continue his frantic pace; he withdraws from you to drink the burst of your bliss, trading long laves of his tongue with suckling kisses at your sensitive clit, knowing exactly where your climax begins to plateau and how to prolong it, to send you climbing into a second one. He effortlessly plays your body, grazes the hood of your clit with his teeth, audibly enjoying your slick with that low growl that hums through his body. Your knees quit completely, but he supports you, waiting for your limit and finally parting from your quivering cunt with a few soft, worshipping kisses.

He guides you back into his lap, now that you’re spent and lax, and he cradles you as he gently pulls your breeches back up, re-tying the laces. You regard him from your sprawled position lovingly, catching the last of your breath, placing your hand over his heart. You can feel the slow thrum of his pulse – although it has picked up with his arousal, just a little – and it calms you. He smiles at you, adoring the way you look post-orgasm, and leans down to kiss you. You taste the salt of yourself on his lips and softly whimper, content.

He’s ragingly hard, tenting his pants, and your hand goes to palm him – but he stops you with gentle fingers encircling your wrists. “No, darling.” He purrs, “This isn’t about me. Not tonight.”

You want to argue, but you hear Verra’s purposefully obnoxious voice from the campsite. “Boy, sure _sounds_ like they _fucked_ that berry monster to death!”

With a groan, you sit yourself up, and stroke the angular slant of his jawline, the stubble rasping your fingers. “I want to sleep with you tonight. Don’t sit guard. Rest with me.”

“But Verra and Jaskier—”

“I suspect the secret is _completely_ out now, don’t you?” You smirk, and he huffs out a laugh, pushing himself to stand, helping you find your footing in the process.

“I suspect so.” He agrees, as you stroll back to the distant campfire light, “Still, we have a fight to prepare for, tomorrow. _Just_ sleep.”

“Mmm.” You agree, sensibly, “Just sleep.”

——————

_Just sleep,_ your plush arse.

Verra makes a show of being ‘replaced’, whining about having to sleep with ‘the rabble’, until Jaskier blows raspberries at her neck and forces her to relent with a giggling squeal, letting him steal her away. You slip under the blankets on your bedroll, Geralt’s laid out beside you, and you tuck neatly into his body with his arm around you, suspecting that slumber will find you easily.

Unfortunately, when you close your eyes, you can’t help but continue to replay the reason for your fatigue against the black backdrop of your eyelids. That mouth undoing you so completely, those strong hands supporting you, and the hunger in those amber irises in which your soul is so wholly preserved, fossilised forever. You try to breathe deeply and stay still, feeling Geralt’s warmth surround you, and the even rhythm of his own chest as he cuddles with you. After a time, you’re unable to meet with the sleep you seek, and so you turn over, hoping to make yourself comfortable on your other side.

You’re met with an intense pair of eyes, sleep-deprived as your own, but completely awake nonetheless. “Can’t sleep?” He whispers, and you nod. “Hmm. Neither can I.”

Remaining silent, you trace the line of his hair with gentle fingertips, smoothing the creases of his brow with your thumb, wishing you had some more permanent way to memorise his beauty, because your human memory never does it justice. He watches you, hand still on your hip, and you wonder what thoughts are swirling in the nebula of his mind.

You don’t know who moved first – it may have been you – but the kiss you share in the closeness between you is as natural as drawing in air; it’s slow, and sweet, and the love that radiates from the connection provides you with a warm glow to bathe in. There’s no hurry or hunger; you enjoy the gentle stroke of his flicking tongue, the brush of his beard on your chin, the low sound of satisfaction that prowls up the column of his throat. Somewhere in the midst of it, you shift, climbing atop him, and he accepts your weight readily.

When you break for breath, you press a line of your lips down the slope of his cheek, to his earlobe, which you suck between your teeth to graze; he murmurs at this little pleasure as your hands slip down his body, unlacing his sleep-breeches, your right circling the length of his half-hard cock. After what you’d shared at the riverbed, he’s eager; with a few practiced pumps he’s completely erect for you, flinching slightly when you swipe his beading precome ‘round the head of his dick with the pad of your thumb.

You return your mouth to his, trading short, tender kisses as you slip your tunic up enough that it won’t be in your way, guiding your already drooling cunt to rock against his hardness in preparation. He cannot kiss you when you sink slowly onto him, filling yourself; his head thuds back against the bedroll as he sighs a drawn-out moan, throbbing needily in the heat of you. For your part, you’re gasping too, reeling at the sensation of completeness again, at the way he fills and stretches you so perfectly. You pause, giving both of you a moment of composure, and then you beg his gaze again with the coax of your hand, needing to see him.

The way you ride him is erotic and sensual, but it’s no game of hard fucking or desperation; you make love, the whorls of your breathing measured out in little huffs as the slow sensations burst against your skin like sea-foam bubbles, building in a gradual manner that is all kinds of languid and adoring. You worship his cock with your mink-silk walls, the roll of your body hypnotic, although you maintain that eye-lock, completely in the moment with him, united and reunited. His verbal response stutters from his lungs, a series of pants and groans as he trusts you with his body wholly, knowing you’ll grant him merciful release, letting you choose the tempo. His thumb grazes your clit, a rub that is slow but firm, and you tumble into climax like a free-floating feather, soaring with the feel of it, the clench of you around his cock a gentle tremble that advertises the splash of rapture that you revel in.

You feel the strength of his pulse kicking inside you, see the darkening of his eyes as his jaw clenches, and you pull away from him with a swift movement. He’s left confused, on the brink of orgasm, his reddened cock throbbing; he exists in that state for mere moments, however, as you slide down his body, open your mouth and hilt him within your throat in two slick strokes, bobbing only once with concave cheeks before he explodes, failing to meet your gaze because the _feel_ of it makes him arch upwards, his entire musculature defined and taut as he comes bodily, his extended moaning broken by the rasp of his dry baritone. You swallow the flood of creamy seed that shoots in long licks down your throat, on your tongue; your right hand toys with his clenching balls, coaxing everything from him, nuzzling into the silvery nest of his trimmed pubes as he spends himself. Not a drop is spilled, and he throbs sensitively in the aftermath, jerking his hips upwards a little when you release him with an audible _pop._

“Fuck.” The salt-grit of his voice is bewildered, and you lick your lips, smiling, loosely re-tying his pants, curling into his side as his arm cradles you. “I could live a thousand years… and never forget the way you feel, but… every time. _So_ good. _Fuck._ ”

“Mmmm.” You agree, blinking; your body is suddenly screaming at you, reminding you to rest, demanding your compliance. “I thought it better… if I took care of any mess.” You yawn.

“You’ve no complaint from me,” He slurs, and you know he’s drifting, as you are, “Your mouth… is one of your most talented and precious gifts.”

“S'that so?” Your words are muffled against his skin, “What’s my… _most_ precious?”

You’re asleep before he answers, shattered, but all the same, he voices into the private dark, moments away from joining you. “Hmm… your heart, my love.”

That night, another piece of it is repaired.


	10. Part Ten - Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Geralt face the rock troll for the bounty. You must consider choices about your quest for the witch after a surprising turn of events.

Four individuals filter out from their respective tents the following day; Verra and Jaskier have the same look about them as Geralt and yourself.

That is to say – nobody had much quantity of sleep during the night, but the _quality_ was rather good.

Geralt immediately sees to the equipment and the horses as you catch Verra’s eye; she raises one eyebrow in a question, registers the quirk of your smile, and poorly disguises a giggle as a cough into the back of her hand. You sidle up to her to begin cooking breakfast, though she does the majority of the work. It’s more of a way to gossip quietly.

Jaskier stares after the Witcher for a moment, before taking a deep breath and striding over, assisting with Bolt. Geralt makes a soft grunt that might be a greeting, or a thanks; often such a noise is up for interpretation.

“Ger’,” The bard begins, his voice low; this catches the other man’s attention, because he’s not used the nickname in a time, “I wanted to say…”

“You needn’t say anything, Jaskier.” Gruffly, the Witcher cuts him off, counting his filled vials, the soft clinking a melody to his methods. “We’ll return in good health.”

“No, it’s not about the fight. I know you can defeat a troll, however grouchy.” He resists the urge to make a comparison. “I spoke to Y/N last night, and she… made some _things_ more obvious to me.” His brow creases as he kicks at a rock. Jaskier is good with feelings – hell, he writes about them – but apologising is different. Especially when the recipient of said apology is stone-faced and dismissive.

“Things?” Geralt prompts, although he sounds half-invested. He’s checking Roach’s tack.

“What happened in Rinde–”

This evokes a reaction; the Witcher tenses, and shoots Jaskier a side-long glance, his cat-gold eyes cautious. “I don’t wish to speak of that.”

The bard clears his throat, and nods, lacing his hands together. “All I will _say_ is that–”

“I don’t wish to hear _more_ from you on my _failures!_ ”

“–that I’ve been **wrong.** ” Jaskier forces out, which causes Geralt to pause again, blinking, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t consider how the witch… mage– that twisted woman, I didn’t consider she was using you. The things I’ve said since then… the way I’ve behaved… it’s been poor form. I hope you can forgive me. I hope I can be a better travel companion for you. I hope… we can be friends again.”

“We’ve never _been_ friends.” Geralt reminds him, stubbornly, and Jaskier can’t help but smirk. It’s the closest he might get to acceptance, and he knows it.

“Then I hope we can be whatever we were again.” The bard cinches Roach’s saddle, as the stallion noses his pockets, hoping for treats.

The Witcher makes a low sound again, lost in thought, and Jaskier leaves him with that small olive branch to consider, returning to the campfire with a declaration about starvation.

—————-

On the road, without Verra and Jaskier, you’re able to keep a faster pace. Roach and Bolt are competitive; the mare always wants to be half-a-nose ahead, but the stallion seems to want to impress her. For a time, you both have your hands full with simply trying to get your mounts to obey your command; after an hour or so, they settle, although Roach isn’t above snapping her teeth at Bolt if he wanders too close.

“So, I believe it’s safe to say we won’t be getting a foal to sell.” You joke, gently tugging on the reins so your steed won’t veer into the love of his life and piss her off anew.

“Roach deserves the _best._ ” Geralt announces, and you make an indignant noise.

“Are you suggesting Bolt is _not_ of prime stock? Of pure blood? The strongest stallion this side of the great mountains?”

“You bought him from some no-name village innkeep at a discounted price. Safe to say there’s something wrong with him somewhere.” You can’t tell if he’s teasing, and you take the bait.

“I’ll have you _know_ that he was discounted because I undid two of the buttons on my blouse.” You retort, and can’t help but openly laugh when Geralt flicks you a look of menace. “What? Worked, didn’t it?”

“You’re lucky we’re on a hunt, and getting close, or I’d be reminding you _exactly_ to whom you belong, my little minx.” His voice is a purr, and the stroke of it in your ears makes you shiver.

“Pity.” You murmur, “I suppose I’ll have to make do with a promise that you’ll _remind me_ later.”

“You have it.” The two of you trade a long glance; there’s lust and love and the fragility of newborn trust there, and it’s refreshingly sweet.

You ride in silence for a time again, listening to the world around you, ever-wondering how it must sound to Geralt. More peaceful without Verra and Jaskier trailing you as your personal peanut gallery, you suspect. In time you come to a quaint hamlet, people tending to their daily chores with some haste, looking over shoulders; you understand that this must be the place most affected by the rock troll’s presence.

“The Witcher is ‘ere!” A man shouts, and Geralt winces slightly as a cheer ripples through the townsfolk, some of them clapping, some shouting their blessings. It’s times like these that you hate an ill-educated mob; Geralt is useful to them _right now,_ and so he’s their king – right up until the rock troll falls. And then once the coin is collected, he returns to being an outsider, a wildcard; they’ll shut doors on him and turn him out of taverns. You detest their fear and ignorance. The Witcher you travel with, however, always bears it with a quiet grace that you know comes from years of the same treatment.

You don’t stop for long in the town, merely clarifying the precise location of the menace, and letting your horses drink from the stable trough. When they are watered, you continue through, the shouting still ringing in your ears. Outside the walls, you roll your eyes.

“Don’t think too much on it.” Geralt advises, softly, “I try not to.”

You grunt – the noise he’s so fond of is highly contagious – and know that he’s not entirely truthful, but nod your head anyway. “You just… deserve _better._ ”

“I have everything I could want.” He tells you, and the way he looks at you causes a flush of red to sweep from your cheeks to your breast, like spring-poppies bursting into flower. _Since when do you blush?_

Since Geralt of Rivia stares at you as if you placed the very moon and stars in the sky solely for him to wondrously contemplate in the dark evenings.

“I’ll stay behind you, as you’ve said.” You change the subject, for fear you might nibble your lower lip to bleed, “Bow and arrow to hand, sword as a secondary.”

He hums, and begins to steer Roach into a thicket of trees; you follow single-file, waiting for his dismount so you can hitch Bolt, ensuring they are close to freshly running water and grass to graze upon in your absence. Silently, you check your supplies; you strap your quiver over your shoulder, and fiddle with the tension on your bow. Geralt is pocketing various elixirs and adjusting the fit of his armour. When you’re both satisfied, you leave on foot, towards a grouping of nearby hills where your target has settled.

It’s fairly obvious that you’re at the right place once you approach; there are carrion birds picking at bovine carcasses, scattering upon your approach, and you see the skeletons of a few villagers that were ill-prepared to face the monster, some holding bent weaponry. You curl your upper lip, but stay at the range you have been told to. Geralt doesn’t spare much of a glance at the carnage, although you know he would have noted the human lives taken.

There’s a massive jagged boulder ahead, covered with tufts of moss; you’re trying to figure out how best to navigate around it when the damn thing _moves_ , uncurling from the ground; it’s fleshy and grotesque beneath the shell of rock, standing a clear three feet taller than Geralt, and its knees are bowed by the weight on its back. The creature’s long arms nearly brush the ground, and it’s caked in dirt – and _other_ substances, you suspect. You’ve never seen such a sight.

“Oh! Oh-ho ho!” It booms, low voice like the crash of a falling forest tree; you almost cover your ears. “Send me a Witcher, they do. Humans are big scared.”

“Humans are tired of you stealing their livestock, and their _lives_ , Norme.” Geralt addresses the creature in the common tongue; he hasn’t withdrawn a weapon yet.

“How you knowing Norme’s name?” The troll questions, scratching his belly; a layer of detritus flakes off. “Wait, wait. Norme am knowing you, too. The Geralt of the Rivia!” He slaps a nearby hill, and leaves a dent in the soil. “Ho ho. Been _many_ long.”

“Yes.” Geralt acknowledges; you watch the interaction with fascination, as the troll squints at you, and then back to the Witcher. “I told you last time, though; if you take from the humans, they will hurt you. And you’ve killed them. I told you that they’d put a bounty on you, and someone like me would be forced to stop you.”

“Me? Am killing humans? Pah!” Norme dismisses in his echoing voice, “ _No_ kill. Norme am only take one cow, two cow.”

“We passed their skeletons on our way here.” Geralt’s voice is still patient.

“They am _intruders_. Trying steal Norme’s things.” The troll defends, visibly agitated. “You, you pass riddle. Norme has better riddle–”

“The time for riddles is gone, Norme.” Geralt’s hand moves to his steel sword, and he unsheathes it; the metal is shiny with a slick of ogrid oil. “You _were_ warned.”

“Norme **hurt** Geralt of the Rivia and friend!” The monster roars, and you withdraw an arrow, notching it to the string of your bow, holding it low.

The Witcher has no response to this; with a speed and elegance you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to watching, he attacks first, aiming a downward slash to one of the troll’s legs. The gash spurts blood in a gush, and the creature howls in pain, bending to swipe at Geralt, who rolls into a shoulder-tuck out of the way. Now at his back, he has to avoid flailing arms to return to the front of the fight, where the troll is vulnerable.

You see an opportunity and draw the bow-string back, loosing a shaft into the monster’s body. It hits his left shoulder, sinking into the flesh, and again the thing bellows, focusing upon you. It lifts a stone from the earth, easily as big as your entire torso, and throws.

You dodge to the right, holding up your arm to shield your face as the projectile crashes into another boulder, shattering stone-on-stone; a piece thuds into your thigh, and you bite back a cry, already feeling the impact bruise forming. Testing your weight, you realise you’re mostly unharmed – or your adrenaline is spiking – and you notch another arrow.

Geralt has used this brief window of time to face the troll again, forcing attention upon him once more; he feints a slash and lands a second cut on the creature’s torso, dire but not fatal. Norme swings again, and this time he clips the Witcher, sending him flying into the side of one of the hills. He hits the earth bodily, and you hear his groan of pain; you fight the urge to call his name, and focus on the threat instead. Your second arrow hits it in the abdomen, and it stamps towards you with an uneven gait, teeth bared, raising its hands high to strike. You swiftly withdraw your sword, recalling Geralt’s words; _the left is a feint. Dodge left._

You move to strike, but you’re not nearly as graceful as Geralt; still, your blade scores skin, as the creature swings with the force of its left arm. Quickly, you leap to the left–

–and take the brunt of the blow to the torso, knocking you hard back to the earth.

“ _ **No!**_ ” Geralt thunders, on his feet long enough to witness the collision; there’s a peculiar blue glow when you’re struck, but then all he knows is that you’re unconscious, and the troll is bearing down to strike again, to crush you into the earth.

He unleashes a force sign, causing the troll to stumble off-balance, top heavy, and then with a dexterous leap he carves the beast’s throat open, nearly decapitating it, finishing the battle. It falls soundlessly, heavy, and flinches in the grasp of death.

Uncaring of the defeated monster, he kneels at your side, dropping his blood-slick weapon. Fear is blazing in his amber eyes, his hand trembling as he feels your neck; he can’t hear your pulse over the roar of his own in his ears. But there he finds it, strong, steady; it calms him some. Clever fingers make quick work of your armour, the front of it badly bent; his gentle hands roam your body in order to assess the damage. He starts at the top, purposefully avoiding pushing the cloth up, because that **blow** – _how could a babe survive that?_ Your right shoulder is dislocated, and he takes advantage of your unconscious state to re-socket the bone, before feeling down your breast. He’s absolutely astounded to find no broken ribs. No give in your sternum. Finally, steeling his courage, he pushes up the cloth of your tunic.

It’s the first time he’s laid eyes upon the swell of your stomach, where his baby grows. And grow it still does; he sees no bruising on your abdomen, nor your pelvis, and the relief makes him bite back a sound he hasn’t made in decades; a _sob_. He can’t make sense of it; the blow probably wouldn’t have killed you, but it should have inflicted much more damage than it did.

And then he remembers how this babe came into existence; it’s magic-bound, protected. It’s a promise, and it _must_ be kept safe. The djinn is seeing the wish carried through. It’s the first time he’s felt thankful towards the damnable creature. With a huff of ease, he sits back, and hears the quickening of your breath as you begin to rouse.

“Ou—uu _chhhhh…_ ” Your slur isn’t elegant as you try to blink the world back into focus; your head is throbbing, your shoulder is aflame, and you fear you’ll need to walk with a stick for the rest of your days, judging by the ache in your leg. Faintly, you remember the troll, and try to push yourself up, fear for Geralt’s safety driving you. “Ge _errr–_ ”

“Shh, _shh,_ my love,” His voice is thick and low, and you realise he’s at your side. “I’m here. You’re okay. **Fuck,** you’re _okay._ ”

Turning to face him – _ow,_ your neck protests, – you squint in the afternoon sun. “ _You_ okay?” You manage, trying to remember what happened.

“Bruised, as you are. Although you’ve suffered a shoulder injury that will have to be nursed.” He hangs his head. “I saw you dodge left. I-I think he’d learnt a different tactic from years of fighting. I should never have just _presumed_ how he’d come at you. I’m so sorry.”

“Geralt?” You grit out, and he gently cradles your head, “I’m fine. Anything I suffer, it is–” With a startle, you run your hand down your front, feeling your lower abdomen. You don’t want to look down. “Gods, _the baby,_ oh _Gods!_ ”

“It’s fine. Hey, look at me? It’s _fine._ ” He assures you, gently stroking your hair until you refocus on him, “I can hear the heartbeat. When you were struck, I saw a flash, like lightning. I couldn’t understand how you’d come away from that so unscathed… but the djinn. You were protected by magic.”

In your achy and weary state, you try to process this information, blinking. Nothing feels different down there, and there’s no dire wetness at the apex of your legs. “Huh. So I’m… _invincible_ for the remainder of my term?”

He grunts. “I don’t know. But I’m going to say _no_ , because I’ve never felt more…” You see the pearly pinch of his teeth as he grits them, “More scared, more helpless, in my life. Believe me when I tell you that I _know_ you’re no damsel in need of saving, but I _cannot_ let you hunt with me again. If anything happened to you… **fuck.** ” He blinks hard, and looks away.

“Hey,” You whisper, “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. And we’ll… talk about hunts later.” Letting the weight of your head rest into his palm, you wince. “Tell me you brought something for pain that a human can take.”

You hear him clink through vials, and he grunts. “Yes, but… it’ll make you sleep, too. I have to get Bolt to carry you back to the town. Will–”

“Give me the _thing,_ Geralt.” You demand, “You run faster than Roach when you’re motivated to do so, I swear. I know you won’t be long.”

He battles with this for a moment, and then you feel the glass against your lips; there’s something bitter dripped onto your tongue, and you swallow. In moments, the world darkens at the edges again, fuzzy; the last thing you are privy to is his promise that he’ll return.

—————-

When you awaken again, there’s a trinity of reasons why; you’re starving, you desperately need to relieve your bladder, and there are rowdy people nearby that have no manners to speak of. _What the fuck is going on in my room,_ you think, before the throb at your shoulder and leg remind you of your condition. Your right arm is bandaged into a sling, and you feel the compress of herbs at your thigh.

“…are **so** lucky that the djinn thing happened.” You recognise Verra’s voice, and the ‘tough guy’ tone of it. “If she’d been hurt worse, I’d, I’d–”

“Poke me in the chest again, Verra,” It’s Geralt’s growl, “I **dare** you.”

“Woah-hey let’s _not_ , let’s not poke the angry Witcher, okay?” Jaskier. Clearly you’ve been out awhile, and they have either come to find you, or Geralt has fetched them. You suspect the former, given Verra’s indignation, and your belief that he probably hasn’t left your side.

“Can you all stop yelling?” You croak out, your throat dry. Your best friend is at your bedside in a flash, holding water for you to wet your lips with. Geralt is next to her, looking murderous, clearly wishing to tend to you, and Jaskier is hovering at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry, my love.” The Witcher murmurs, and you manage a half-smile at him. “We had _guests_ drop in.”

“Guests?” Verra echoes, “You mean you _left us_ to imagine the worst at camp when you didn’t return, so we came looking for you, only to find you all _freshly bathed_ in an inn–”

“Verra _aaa_.” You whine, and she huffs. “My head still hurts. Shh.”

“Listen, him and I– we’re not close,” Geralt snorts, and she shoots him a glare, “But I agree with him. No more hunts.”

“No more hunts… until I am healed.” You agree, and the trio of them make various sounds of disagreement.

“No more hunts _at all._ ” Jaskier pipes up, and you frown at him, betrayed. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but we can’t just… rely on the mercy of the djinn. And we certainly can’t rely on that devil-woman.”

You fall back into your pillows with a huff. “So, what, then? We give up our quest? You can’t _stop_ me from going to find that witch.”

Geralt takes up your left hand, and kisses it. “No one is going to stop you, love. But we’re going to find a better way to locate her. A safer route, or…”

“A mage?” Verra pipes up, and both Jaskier and Geralt make disapproving growls. “…What? Isn’t a portal easier?”

“It isn’t that simple.” Geralt tries to sound patient, and fails. “To find someone specific, we’d need something of theirs, or their exact location. Plus, there are few mages powerful enough to open such a portal.”

“What of that one you used to find me?” You weigh in, and meet Geralt’s wearied amber eyes. “Triss, you said her name was. Maybe she’ll help us again?”

“She likes _me._ ” Jaskier offers, unhelpfully.

Geralt gruffly grunts, before sighing. “Nothing needs to be decided tonight. Y/N needs rest, and we’re not leaving this town until she’s fully recovered. Which means you two best hope the innkeep has a room free.”

“I need Verra, Geralt.” You tell him, and his eyebrows knit together, the rejection washing over his fatigued features.

“Oh. I’ll see if there’s another room—”

“ _No,_ I mean…” Laughter laces your voice, “I only have one working hand and I swear I’m about to wet this bed. And then no one will get to sleep in it.”

The Witcher’s lips twitch in his almost-smile, and he hits Jaskier in the chest, making the bard grunt out a tiny _oof._ “Come on, Jas’. Let’s wait outside.”

Even in pain and medicated, you notice the return of the bard’s nickname. The past few days haven’t been perfect by any measure, but still, you feel strangely hopeful.


	11. Part Eleven - Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spend time in the village healing from your run-in with the troll. Bonds that have been broken start to knit together stronger. You must plan your journey ahead to visit Triss, to continue your quest to break the hex.

A month.

It takes an _entire month_ for your damnable human body to heal to Geralt’s satisfaction.

At first it’s quite nice; the town is small, but it’s friendly towards both the Witcher and yourself. You are the saviours, the vanquishers of the troll. And you’re the legendary indestructible woman that took a solid blow from said beast and lived to tell the tale. Well, _most_ of it; you keep the djinn part to yourself. That’s no one else’s business. Rumours begin to circulate that you’re part-Witcher, or a mage of import, and on Geralt’s advice, you simply let the gossip run rampant until the people are bored and move onto another subject. Something to do with an annual autumn festival – you don’t pay much attention.

You’re committed to your recovery instead; it could be the reason why you heal slower. Too much too soon. At night, Geralt gently replaces bandages and herbal remedies and soothes away any muscle knots with the strength of his fingers.

That’s certainly not all his fingers are interested in; as the weeks roll by, you truly start to show. Considering it’s Geralt’s babe, you shouldn’t be surprised that you're already bigger than most women you’ve seen carry at this stage. He traces the roundness of your belly with quiet, fond rapture; at night he sleeps with one large hand on the bump, assuring both of you that he’s there, you’re safe. In the mornings, he greets you, and then your stomach, sliding down the bed to kiss the curve and murmur in his sleep-roughened voice. “ _Good morning,_ little treasure.” He always says, “We can’t wait to meet you.” Every time, your eyes prick with tears, and you wonder when your mood swings will start to settle.

_That’s_ a new part of your lives, and one that Geralt is struggling to adjust to; emotion is already a difficult high-wire for him to tread, and now you are volatile enough to send him tumbling. One morning he finds you by the town’s well, openly sobbing because you’ve discovered a dead frog, and you feel bad for the creature. Puzzled, he tries to explain that frogs often don’t survive the approaching coldness of winter. You snap at him, accusing him of not understanding, and storm off to the stables to be with Roach and Bolt. He finds you there, an hour later; in his hands he carries a tiny box, wrapped in a black ribbon. He thought you might want to give the frog a funeral. When your tears begin anew, he’s frustrated, until he realises you’re weeping in some mixture of amusement and joy; he has mere moments to contemplate _this_ turn before you’re jumping him, making use of a fresh pile of hay.

Your raging sex-drive is another new frontier you were unaware of entirely; maybe you feel a little like a stuffed turkey at times, but Gods, you’re _insatiable._ You're blessed to have a man built for stamina, obsessed with your body and desperately in love with you, whose mutations have also made him lustfully hungry. He’s fascinated about other changes to your physique; the plumping of your breasts, and the sensitivity of your nipples. It's quite possible he keeps you from hitting the road again simply so he can hoard you, worship your body, spend hours twined with you as you doze and drift in and out of a low, hedonistic haze of pleasure.

Verra and Jaskier are busy too; Jaskier has become an almost-nightly feature at the inn, and he's found a rush of inspiration in this town. He writes a new song every other day, some of them lewd enough to have Verra throwing her shoe at him, some of them so sweetly romantic that when he practices them, both you and the courtesan are glassy-eyed and sniffling. Geralt's input is usually more practical, such as, “Wyverns don't live there.” Or, “That doesn't rhyme.” But somehow it's not spiteful, and Jaskier often accepts the critique. You feel as if their friendship is starting to find stability.

Your best friend is wildly popular with the men of the town, and in turn, a lot of the women. In secret they come to thank her for giving them relief from their spouses for a day or an evening; you find it rather admirable that she can turn what might be perceived as infidelity into an art-form. She knows whose eye to catch, or which woman to have a gentle word to, or who to take for tea in the afternoon to smooth out any potential wrinkles. Between her and Jaskier, you're fairly sure if you stay any longer, the two will ruin the hamlet's economy.

At first you were frightened for both of them – you don't know what to call their relationship, but there's _something_ there. When drinking, she is prone to cuddle into the bard's shoulder. When he plays, she's the loudest one to cheer. When she comes downstairs dressed in working clothes, he's the one wolf-whistling and grinning, telling her, “Go _get_ them, darling”. And there are times you are fairly sure that they _both_ entertain clients – sometimes a man, or sometimes a woman and a man. Verra doesn't discuss this openly, and you choose not to pry; so long as they are both happy, you don't much care what is going on behind the door to their room.

When you can't fit into your blasted breeches any longer, it's Verra that takes you to the tailor to have some new things made. You _hate_ that you have to trade trousers for dresses, but they'll last much longer before you're needing alterations again, and the tailor is clever enough to make the winter clothes with a front-lacing bust that can be adjusted. Warm undergarments are sewn for everyone; practical knitted fabric that will keep you toasty on the road. You have furs stitched into everyone's cloaks, and gloves made for yourself and Verra. Jaskier and Geralt are fairly set for clothing – although the bard has new doublets and breeches made anyway, because some of the fabric is just so _'quaint'_ and _'rugged'_ , he tells you.

To thank her for her selflessness and continued care of you, you have something made for Verra in secret. To your surprise, Geralt pitches in with coin, too. “Maybe we don't always agree,” He tells you, “But she loves you and cares for you, and so I owe her a debt I can never repay.” It's another moment of frantic tears for him to try to work through, but it's all worth it when you eventually have Verra unwrap the gift. You've commissioned a new dress for her to work in, crimson in colour to advertise her trade, but with dramatic cape sleeves that fit her swishy, bold personality. When she accepts the garment, she cries, which makes _you_ cry again, and Jaskier bites his wobbling lower lip. Geralt mutters something about more ale and goes to the bar.

\------------------

You've stolen the Witcher away for practice with your blade, to test the strength of your recovered arm. He is a considerate sparring partner, and never patronises you by taking it slowly or holding much back; he always works you into a sweat, gently corrects technique, and helps you rebuild the muscle you've lost when resting. You know you're not his equal in the blade department – it's not _possible_ for you to be – but you're grateful for his patience and teachings.

When you're tired this time, you rest with him beneath a huge oak tree, sitting in the space of the sprawl of his legs and leaning into him. One of the first snows is falling, light fluffy flakes drifting to dissolve on ground that is too hot for them to stick to, and it's peaceful. You let yourself imagine, for a moment, that this is your life; you're pregnant with your husband's child in a small, friendly village, and you're both taking an afternoon off to enjoy one another. You don't much want to think about the vastness of the future.

“What are you smiling about, my love?” Geralt's voice purrs in your ear, and you half-turn, resting your head on his shoulder. He kisses your forehead.

“Just... _this._ It's nice.”

He grunts softly, understanding. Again, you lapse into silence, and he slides a hand around you, cupping your belly as he often does. This time, he flinches, his fingers quivering, pulling away. You're worried instantly.

“What is it? The baby?” You can't hide the fear from your tone.

“I-I... _felt_ it.” He whispers, his tempered-gold eyes wide. Greedily, his hand returns to your belly.

“What? **I** didn't!” Some part of you is awed, but another part is annoyed that he has such keen senses, privy to things you will experience later. He is focused, stiffly-still, and you sit like that for a time, before he breaks the silence with low laughter.

“The quickening. I can feel the baby. I think... it's stretching.” There's something about his voice that is divine, the low hush of adoration, and you let yourself dissolve into it to experience the sensation from his point of view.

“Does it... feel strong? Do you think?” You ask, placing your hand over his. You try to tune into your own body, willing the babe to make a more dramatic movement, but all you can feel is the ever-constant urge to pee.

“It does.” He grins, and nuzzles the top of your head. “Must have much of its mother.”

“Me? Geralt, your forearm is thicker than my _thigh_.”

“Still. You are stronger than I.” You catch his gaze again, and meet his lips when he kisses you chastely. “It's in your heartbeat. Your command. You're stronger than you might ever know, love.”

You raise your shoulders, biting at your lower lip. “Well, you're kinder than you might ever know. More giving. More loving than you think you are, Geralt. I hope this baby has much of _you,_ too.”

He still can't accept the compliments. You can see that they don't quite register. He pulls you closer, and sighs into your hair. “We're going to do this. We're going to find a way.”

“I know.” You tell him, even though you do not. But you _hope_. And that is something.

\------------------

“Sooo,” Verra squints at the map, upon which Geralt has marked out your route, “Essentially, we're just going... back the way we came, mostly.”

“More coastal, but yes. This is the safest route to Novigrad.”

Jaskier pokes the map. “Why are we to go via Oxenfurt? The scholars there make my head sore with their prattling. Plus, it makes more _sense_ to cross through Prana--”

“ **No.** ” Geralt interrupts, gritting his teeth, “Prana is _too close_ to Rinde. I do not care that it will take us longer; we're not taking the risk of going near...” He curls his upper lip.

“The Bitch Demoness.” Verra offers, because the Witcher can't bring himself to say Yennefer's name.

“Yes.” He accepts, and you sigh.

“Much as I understand the concern, Rinde is _two villages_ away from Prana. And Jaskier is right – the crossing is safer there, and it cuts time from our journey.” You offer your opinion, and Geralt bears the weight of his gaze upon you, displeased.

“I am to navigate. That was the _deal,_ was it not?” He folds the map up, “If we're going to beg for Triss' help, we're doing this my way.”

“Lots of blue balls in Oxenfurt, I hear. I could make a _mint._ ” Verra chimes, and you glare at her, surprised she'd side with Geralt. “Don't look at me like that. I don't want you near that harpy, either.”

The Witcher hums, and the fact that he and Verra are sharing a moment of kinship makes you fold. “Fine! _Fine._ We'll take this... weird sideways route. But you're buying me a fancy scholar book.” Reaching out, you prod Geralt with your foot.

“Am I now? What subject?” He is pocketing the map, regarding you with amusement.

“I don't know yet. Do you think they'll have one on how to tame a Witcher?” Everyone at the table snorts, including Geralt, although Jaskier is the most vocal, slapping the tabletop.

“Feel like you should know that nobody could write that book and _live_ to have it published by now, Y/N.” The bard grins into a cup of wine, and you giggle.

“True. I suppose I'll settle for something else.”

“Speaking of settling,” Verra is toying with the hair at Jaskier's neck, “When are we to leave? The break has been refreshing, I suppose, but if I have to hear the baker's wife bemoan her husband's tiny penis _one more time_ , I will burn this village to the ground.”

Your giggle turns into a laugh as Jaskier nearly spits the wine. Geralt answers the question directly. “Tomorrow. I've had our accounts settled. Tonight we pack and prepare; in the morning, we purchase provisions and leave.”

“It's already cold.” You point out, “We want to limit our camping times. The coast-winds are biting.”

The Witcher grunts, and taps the map in his pocket. “We've few planned stops that are not sheltered. I've thought of that, love.”

“Forgive me,” Childishly, you stick out your tongue, “Forgot that we're being escorted by Commander _'Thinks of Everything'_.”

“How'd he become a Commander?” Jaskier asks, “Who would be out of their mind enough to bestow power upon him?”

“No one.” Geralt grunts, leaning back in his chair, “But I have no need for titles.”

“Not even _'Mr. Y/N?'_ ” Verra sweetly questions, and both you and Geralt stare at her; your jaw is slack. She chuckles, and rises from the table. “Yeah, that's what I thought. Come on, Jas'. We have people to say goodbye to.”

As the pair of them exit the room, you exchange a glance with Geralt, who is examining you with a quiet contemplation that you don't understand. All you know is that it makes the blush settle high on your cheekbones again.

\------------------

Bolt is practically dancing in place, loaded with supplies, delighted at the prospect of the open road again. Jaskier's gelding – which Verra has dubbed 'Fleabag' in lieu of a name – looks put-out by the saddle on his back. Roach is patient as ever, a model steed, listening to Geralt's low mutterings as if she knows common. Sometimes you think she does.

“Just do that _thing_ I taught you with your fingers!” Verra is telling the baker's wife, who is tearfully insisting she take a fresh loaf of rye, “It'll help, I swear.”

You put your foot in the stirrup and settle into Bolt's saddle, re-tying your cloak. It feels odd to ride in skirts. Geralt brings Roach around to stand by you as you wait for Verra and Jaskier to mount up. The bard waves at the small number of villagers gathered to see you off. “Well met! Thank you for your hospitality!”

“Don't be a stranger if you are ever in these parts again, Witcher. Thank you for your help.” One man offers; you think it's the blacksmith. Both of your eyebrows raise at the unusual sentiment, but Geralt merely grunts, and eases Roach into a trot. You smile at the well-wisher, and follow, hearing your friends argue over the reins behind you.

“They don't usually say that.” You observe, riding beside the Witcher. He says nothing for a long moment.

“Probably will miss our coin, is all.” He decides, but you can see that even he doesn't believe his words. He's so unused to being wanted or missed that it's easier for him to dismiss it outright.

“Maybe.” You placate him, staring ahead at the road. It's a clear morning, and the ground is crisp with frost.

“The inn-maid shan't miss our bedding laundry, though.” The remark catches you off-guard, and you bark out a laugh.

“What's funny?” Jaskier calls from behind, and you turn your head.

“Your face!” Is your clever retort, and you dodge when he hucks a piece of the rye bread at you. “Hey now! Cheap shot!” Verra rests her chin on his shoulder and grins at you.

“If you're all going to be like this the whole journey, I'm not opposed to leaving them in the first town.” Geralt grumbles, but your trained eye recognises the slightest upwards tick of his mouth.

“Ah, but then it would be just you and I, my beloved. You'll have to put up with my moods, my sore feet, my tantrums – all by yourself, _forever._ Is that what you _really_ want?” Your voice is a feathery tease.

You're unprepared when he flicks his precious metal gaze at you and gently smirks. “ _Yes._ ”


	12. Part Twelve - Scholar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your merry band travels forward to Oxenfurt. On the way, you share a sweet moment in an inn. Jaskier and Verra split from the group.

Three weeks ago, beneath the oak tree with Geralt, the snow was enchanting and beautiful.

Now, with your furred cloak-hood up against the harsh bite of the coastline winds, you curse every flake that lingers on your lashes and decorates Bolt’s multi-coloured mane.

Geralt’s map, and his plan, were both solid; unfortunately for all, nobody had anticipated an early winter. You camped rough more than you’d have liked, all four of you sheltered in a tent for warmth; there was no impropriety or wandering touch as you spooned like a strange sandwich – Geralt, you, Verra, Jaskier.

When you did hit a decent town to restock, you tended to stay for a couple of days rather than overnight, simply to defrost and rest. Although the horses had warm blankets to wear, they needed more care in the cold. Every time, Verra and Jaskier would keep the coin coming in, and every time you felt the guilt gnaw more at your stomach. Guilt and hunger; you were _always_ hungry now, damn it.

“How much do I owe you at this point?” You ask, sat at an inn halfway to your first destination. Jaskier, in the process of paying for your meals, looks startled. Verra frowns, and glances at Geralt, who also seems to want to know the answer.

“Oh darling, your soul, your life – you’ll never repay us.” The bard enthuses, grinning roguishly.

Verra reaches across the table to squeeze his nose in a _honk_. “Nothing. You don’t owe us one single oren, Y/N.”

Both you and Geralt begin to protest at this, your mingled voices silenced as she raises her arms, those dramatic cape-sleeves flapping. _Why did we have that dress made again,_ you wonder? It certainly brought out her queenly side. “Nuh-uh-uh. No ‘buts’ and 'whats’ and,” Her cocoa-cosy eyes flick towards the Witcher, “’ _Hmms_ ’.” Her impression is ridiculous enough for you to giggle, and Geralt nudges your foot with his. “We’re friends.”

“Yes, but–” You begin.

“Did she not just say no 'buts’? Unless you want to show us the one you’re seated upon— _ow_ , it was just a joke, Geralt,” Jaskier glares at the Witcher, who is certainly employing the use of his boot this evening. “This journey has provided me with so much material.”

“And me with new clients.” Verra assures you, and you pretend not to notice the tips of Jaskier’s ears pinken ever-so slightly. “Plus the greatest fun I’ve had in all my life! Well, most of the time.” She throws a glance at Geralt beneath her lashes. She’s not as abrasive with him anymore, although she’s still working at forgiving him for the whole rock troll incident.

You sigh, well aware that you can’t win this fight. “Fine.” You relent, “But I’ll find another way to repay both of you.”

“Ooh, name the baby after me.” Jaskier suggests, as Geralt tilts his head, the amber of his eyes a blatant display of his amused disapproval.

“And if it’s a girl?” You tease, as if you’re considering his proposal.

He taps his fingers on his chin, thinking. “Juliette, obviously.”

“Obviously?” Verra parrots, and you squint at him, too.

“Yeah. Julian, Juliette… makes sense.” The bard tears off a piece of bread and chews upon it. The duo of you are blinking slowly at him, and he frowns. “What? …You think my parents _named me_ 'Dandelion’?” He scoffs, as though you are simpletons. “S'my bard name.”

“Your name is _Julian?_ ” Verra is incredulous. “When did you intend to tell me this?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Never came up. Anyway, I prefer my artist name.”

“ _Never came–_ ” Your best friend looks like she’s about to throw a punch, but she’s stopped when you make a cry of surprise, dropping the turkey leg you were tearing meat from and clutching your stomach. In an instant, Geralt is kneeling at your side.

“I’m okay,” You rush to assure him, feeling the goofiest grin curve your lips, “I _felt_ it.”

“ _Really?_ ” Verra’s squeal is so loud that you think she’s upset every dog in a two-mile radius; she pushes away from her chair and scampers to your other side, followed by Jaskier. Suddenly there are four hands on your belly, and you glare at Geralt.

“You already felt it, love.” You remind him, and he chuckles softly, staring up at you with the quiet fondness you’ve become so steadily used to now.

“I know, but I’ll never tire of it.” The low murmur of his voice is holy, and although his hand is the largest, his touch is the most gentle. As though the babe approves of the sentiment, or of his voice, it moves again; it feels like butterflies tickling within you, and through the thick cloth of your winter dress, it’s probably truly only discernible to you and to Geralt. You share the moment in a thrill of newness spiked with the uncertainty of the future, and he leans forward to kiss your forehead.

“Are you sure you don’t just have gas?” Jaskier queries, and Verra elbows him. “ _Ow._ I don’t feel it.”

“I do,” Verra chirps, shifting Jaskier’s hand to where her own once lay, “Here.”

The bard frowns in concentration, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so focused on something in the time since you’ve known him. His eyes narrow, and then he shakes his head. “Aren’t babies supposed to kick?” He sounds as if you’ve short-changed him at a pantomime. “Just feels like she’s _hungry,_ or–”

“If you want to know when I am gassy, Jaskier, I promise I’ll seek you out.” You tell him, deadpan. The curl of Verra’s hair bobs as she laughs.

“Babies don’t really start the acrobatics 'til around six months in.” She lectures, and you try to look as though you also know this information. Thank the Gods for her. “It’ll be another few weeks before you get kicked in your pretty face, _Julian._ ”

“Don’t _call me_ – wait, pretty, you say? Not devastatingly handsome? Not strikingly magnificent? Not–”

You finish your turkey and tune them out. It’s a skill you’ve picked up out of necessity. Geralt is practicing something similar, returning to his seat – although he keeps one hand on your leg, as if assuring you he’s focused and aware of you. The small gesture is one of many that warm you.

—————-

The weather is slightly kinder the closer you ride to Oxenfurt, and it takes you another two weeks before you see the city’s walls, all of you relieved to be spending a night or two in civilisation and comfort. You’ll be needing a boat crossing to get to Novigrad, and although it is not a long journey, you need to find an adequate stable for Roach, Bolt and 'Fleabag’. Geralt is picky about this, grunting his disinterest at a few inns before he settles upon a smaller one, dismounting and moving to Bolt’s side to assist you down. Now that you are rounder with his babe, he’s treating you with far more care – even when you protest. It’s often easier just to let him fuss.

As you unstrap your bags, you notice Jaskier’s cloak-hood is up, and he’s peeking over his shoulder every now and then as though he’s certain a ghoul is on his tail. You peer at his odd behaviour. “Jaskier, why–”

“Shh- _shh!_ ” He hisses, grabbing your hands. Geralt’s interest is briefly captured, before he goes back to instructing the stable-hand. Verra is as curious as you, and stands with her hands on her hips as the winter-breeze tugs at her wild hair. “Don’t say my name _so loudly._ ”

“What, _**Jaskier?**_ ” You speak up, enunciating as though he’s hard of hearing, and you giggle when he claps a hand over your mouth. Verra squints, and glances around.

“Alright, which noble did you fuck in this town? Or which noble _s._ ” She corrects, aware that Jaskier’s belt-notches are too numerous to count. “Who’s gonna try to murder you?”

“No one.” Jaskier snaps, and the two of you look disbelieving.

“He studied here.” Geralt joins the conversation, and Jaskier shoots him a glance of betrayal. “And taught. If they find out he’s here, he’ll probably be called to the university.”

“Wow.” Verra looks impressed, “I thought you were raised by raccoons.”

“It was only for four years or so.” The bard makes a gesture, trying to shrug the whole thing off. “I don’t want to be cooped up in a classroom trying to impress the importance of poetry upon ungrateful minds. So whilst I’m _here,_ just–”  
  


“Julian!” You hear a booming voice from behind you, and the four of you turn; Jaskier groans lowly. “Well met, my good man. What’s it been? Five, six…?”

“Five years.” Jaskier puts on his best aristocratic smile and speaks through his teeth. “Well met, Professor Woldart. Professor, these are my companions–”

“A pleasure!” The stout, elderly man cuts the bard off before he can make proper introductions. He doesn’t seem interested in any of you – not even Geralt. “Julian, are you looking to board at this inn? Lovely place, it is, but you _must_ know the university has rooms.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother…” Jaskier’s protest is weak; the small man claps him soundly on the back with a roar of laughter, as though the pouting bard is walking wit personified.

“Bother? _Pah!_ We’d be pleased to have you. In fact, we have a new intake of first-year philosophy students. By the Gods, they should be thrilled to have you teach a class or two!” Professor Woldart might be a scholar, but he’s obviously illiterate when it comes to reading body language. Jaskier looks at Geralt desperately, but the Witcher is smirking, silent.

“Why, it sounds like a treat for _both_ of us.” Verra pipes up; for the first time, the professor notices the lithe, attractive courtesan, and he beams at her. “Well met, Professor. My name is Verra. I’m Jaskier’s wife.”

Both you and Jaskier make a sound that results in you coughing, and him turning an interesting shade of red. Geralt snorts. The short man’s eyebrows raise.

“ _You_ tamed Julian’s wandering, then?” He asks, and again he guffaws uproariously. “Well, now I _must_ insist that both of you come with me for dinner. So much to catch up on! Julian, married. Is the end of our world nigh?”

Jaskier is glaring at Verra as though he has the power to make her burst into flames with the fierceness of his eyes alone, and she smiles sweetly at him. The professor is bumbling a short distance away to pick up one of the courtesan’s bags. “Don’t give me that, Jask’,” She purrs, lowly, “He was going to force your hand. I’ll make our stay more exciting.”

“Maybe it’s a good idea,” You begin, “I don’t know what will happen with Triss. I mean, if she’ll see us, or help us. And if she does… the less of us near an all-powerful witch, the better.”

Geralt makes a noise of agreement, and Verra flicks her gaze to him. “You keep her safe at all costs, Witcher, or–”

“You’ll kill me, or castrate me, or castrate my corpse, _I know._ ” Geralt finishes for her, sarcasm weaving into the cadence of his words.

“One week.” Jaskier relents, picking up his own bag, “ _One_ week, and then we’re coming after you, if we must.”

“Gods _help you_ if we must.” Your best friend pokes you in the cheek, and you swat her hand away playfully, before embracing her.

“Take care of Jaskier.” You whisper, “And yourself. And don’t break too many hearts.”

She giggles in your grasp, and when she pulls away, her eyes are bright with a wash of tears. Naturally, the sight makes your throat tight, too. “I can’t help my talents.”

“And you take care of Geralt.” Jaskier asks of you, taking Verra’s place in a quick embrace. The professor is impatiently shuffling closer to the road, eager to catch up with his colleague. You nod in promise, biting your lower lip. The bard claps the Witcher on the shoulder; the gesture is returned, and they share a moment of silent regard for one another, before Jaskier takes Verra’s arm and heads towards the road.

“Where shall we start with our love story, my _dear wife?_ ” He thinks out loud, and you hear her hum as she ponders. Watching them walk out of sight, you actually feel slightly sorry for the academic who has unknowingly invited two conduits of chaos into his realm of study and discipline.


	13. Part Thirteen - Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Geralt share some intimacy before departing to meet with Triss in Novigrad. Once there, you must make a difficult choice.

It’s strange without Verra and Jaskier’s constant buzz of chatter, but you quickly remember that there are many benefits to having the Witcher all to yourself.

You’re experiencing one of them now; after a dinner that began slowly, escalating in speed after you toed your feet against Geralt’s beneath the table, making eyes at him over the rim of your cup, he’d scooped you from your chair and had carried you up to your room. He undressed you with the care and reverence one might bestow upon a fragile relic, religious in the way his hands gently peeled away layers of fabric, the roughness of his fingertips on your skin making you squirm with electric anticipation. He left no place on your body unkissed, the scrape of his stubble sending you shivering, the whispers of his words against your rounded belly a wash weighted with his worship, his love.

By the time his mouth was on your cunt, you were already panting and pricked with sweat, writhing deliciously on the sheets. He took his time, like he wanted to memorise everything about you with his tongue; he traced your folds, licked long lines up the length of your slit, sinfully French-kissed your clit until your body had no choice but to come apart at his command. He was there to hold the pieces of you together through your climax, moaning lowly with you as you shuddered and bucked and sighed.

Now he was behind you, his hands on your sensitive, swollen breasts, the huff of his hot breath in your ear. He’s fucking you with such slow, passionate care that you’re mewling, one leg thrown over his hip to allow him to toy with your pearl when his lazy fingers roam south. He’d made you come long ago, and you hadn’t backed down from that peak; he kept you in a state of delirium, teasing with the rage of your hormones and your lustful body.

“You have _no_ idea,” He pants at your neck, “How fucking _sexy_ you are, right now.” His words make you keen, your head hitting his shoulder as another surge of pleasure tremors through your body, like tectonic plates shifting. “My gorgeous girl. Fuck.”

“Yours,” You agree; you think you might agree to anything, so long as he never stops. The friction of his huge cock is perfect, and every time he rolls his hips slightly to grind the raw nerves deep within you, you can feel the restraint he’s practising in the heavy throb of his length buried in your silky-fucked walls. “ _Geralt,_ Gods…” You want to express more, tell him how you feel, but your body sings for him instead, and he knows.

“Drive me… so fucking crazy, darling,” He moans, as his smooth thrusting begins to suffer; you can feel him thickening impossibly, and know he’s close. “Wanna have you like… _mmhh_ , like this, all the time. _Fuck!_ ”

Purposefully, you squeeze, the massage of your cunt coaxing, and you purr, “You have me, my love.” Tilting your head, you lock your gaze with his; he’s lust-frenzied, all wide pupils and savage jawline in a tight pinch. “Come for me. Fuck, _fill me_ , Geralt… I need it.” He makes a low sound, pushing deeper, “ _Fuuck_ , yes. Need you.”

Your words whittle the last of his resolve to nothing, and he holds you possessively as he comes, brokenly groaning between your shoulder-blades, his grip beneath your breasts tight. You feel the flood of his seed spilling in you, a burst of warmth that he’s kept tethered for the sake of your pleasure; now that there is no restraint, he’s lost in you, suffering full-body spasms through the duration of his orgasm. When he has nothing left to give, he gradually begins to relax behind you, catching his breath in a few shaky gasps, still hilted within the cuddle of your cunt. You bask in it, reaching behind you to toy with his loose hair, nosing the column of his throat, muttering tiny loving words into his skin.

“I’ll never get enough of you.” He confesses, unwilling to uncouple from your join; you don’t encourage him to, content to let your leg rest on his hip. “I’ll never get enough of this. Not just your body – and not just what your clever fucking body is carrying, no.” He tenderly kisses a line down your jaw. “ _You._ Your mind, your spirit. Everything about you makes me want to craft a world for you, a place for us to stay and live and just… _fuck_.” When he closes his eyes, you know reality is sneaking into the haze of his mind, an unwelcome invasion.

“Shhh.” You stroke his mouth; he kisses the pads of your fingers. “We’ll have that world.” Your words are a promise, and his lashes flutter in dark feather-wings as he stares at you, “We _will_ find a way.”

He swallows thickly, kissing the corner of your mouth, and then capturing your lips in a short but heated embrace, as though you are sealing a contract. Gently, he withdraws from your body, taking care to place cloth between your legs so neither of you will have to navigate a wet spot when you sleep. The small gesture makes you smile.

“Let’s make use of the bath, love.” He murmurs, “I’ll top it up. It may have cooled from when I, uh, got sidetracked.”

You giggle. “If lukewarm baths are the price I must pay for your ‘sidetracks’, Geralt, I’ll endure.”

The grin he flashes you is ivory, and you’re reminded of how precious he is; gold and ivory, a rarity that you – a nobody mercenary – are allowed to call _yours_. For the moment, that thought is all you need. For now, tomorrow is just a concept. What you have in the cosy inn-room is your entire life.

—————

“I’m gonna throw up.” You announce, calmly, looking at the white-capped waves that clash together in a dominion fight across the dark ocean, the short crossing to Novigrad. You haven’t even stepped foot on the boat yet, and you’re already sure. Geralt hums, placing an assuring hand on your back.

“It doesn’t take long.” He soothes, “And the sailor I hired came well-recommended from—”

“A Witcher!” His words are interrupted as you’re approached by a thin, scraggly man, wrapped in layers of salt-licked clothing, made waterproof by a coating of oil. The stranger has a patchy black beard that explodes in an unkempt tuft at his chin, and he’s missing an eye; in its place is a large pale-blue pearl. He screams ‘sea-man’ so loudly that you marvel at the lack of a peg-leg or a hook, as if he’d stepped from the colourful pages of a children’s book. Secretly, maybe you were hoping for one or the other.

“Well met.” Geralt grunts, and you smirk privately at the shift in his demeanour. He reserves his softness for you; the rest of the world is privy to the legend, the facade. You like it that way. “I assume you’re…?”

“One-Eyed Hart, that’s me.” He enthuses, “Now, you might be wondering how I got my name…”

“I’m not.” Geralt assures him, monotone.

“…It’s on account of my one eye, you see!” One-Eyed Hart continues, disregarding the Witcher’s bluntness, focusing on your amused smirk instead. “Ah, and _you_ must be the precious cargo that I was told to take care with.” He bends in a gentlemanly bow, and you laugh, trying to curtsy; you’re not exactly as graceful as you once were, but he’s not a nobleman, so it evens out.

“Well met.” You greet, and glance at the boat on the dock, fearful. “One-Eyed Hart, I—”

“Please,” He insists, “Call me Hart.”

“Very well,” You continue, “Hart. Thank you for agreeing to transport us in this poor weather.”

“Pah!” He turns, gesturing for you to follow, “This, poor? It’s as fine a day as any to visit Novigrad, my lady. I’ve sailed seas with waves as tall as mountains, I have. This is nothing to be fretting over.” At the dock, he ascends a small ramp, and offers his hand to you. You glance at Geralt, and then take it, stepping aboard his vessel. You hear the wood creak behind you as Geralt boards, too.

It’s a re-purposed fishing boat, powered – you guess by the smell – with coal, probably propelled by steam. You’re pleased that nobody will be rowing, at least; in your mind’s eye, you’d imagined a little dinghy. Shakily, you find the centre of the boat and plant yourself, wishing to remain as stable as possible. Geralt is helping the sailor cast off, untying complicated knots; the bearded fellow is unbothered by the fact that he’s essentially carrying a one-sided conversation as Geralt answers any questions with the occasional soft grunt. You watch the playful salt-air tug at his silvery hair, and smile fondly.

“Cast off!” Hart yodels, and you look around, half-expecting to see another crew member or a dock worker. There’s nobody. Maybe there was something to be said for sea-madness.

Surprisingly, the boat is powerful, slicing through most waves with ease. Rarely do you feel the vessel rock, and your breakfast stays firmly in your stomach. As he navigates, Hart talks, and you watch the distant island of Novigrad grow larger as you approach.

“Have you much business on Novigrad?” The sailor asks, and you almost want to laugh again, because you don’t know the answer yourself. Instead, you shake your head.

“Visiting an old friend.” You divulge. Geralt is scanning the horizon.

“’Tis a fine city, I’ll tell you that. Rich. Their court mage – _hah!_ ” He slaps his leg. “By the Gods, she’s a sight. Missed her calling as a siren, I’d say. Flame-haired beauty, she is. And never takes a lover! It’s said that—”

“Are we to dock there?” Geralt interrupts, a little too loudly; you feel something uncomfortable flutter in your chest, and it’s not because of the boat’s motion. Of _course_ the mage is gorgeous, you think. Mages choose their own appearances. Suddenly, it occurs to you that you’ve no idea of Geralt’s history with Triss, and a green streak of jealousy begins to unfurl like a new fern-frond in your heart. What if she’s like Yennefer? What if—

You distract yourself by walking to the side of the boat as you begin to dock, gripping the railing, taking deep breaths. Geralt wasn’t to know what he was walking into, with Yennefer. But he knows Triss. _Do you trust him?_

You only need to sneak a single glance at him as he pulls a rope tight, using the strength of his biceps to securely pull the vessel flush against the side of the dock, to realise the truth of your answer. Yes. You do, implicitly.

“Are you alright?” He asks, striding over to you as Hart pulls the ramp to exit down, “You look flustered. Do you feel sick?”

“I’m actually fine.” You assure him; you’re nervous, but you know it’s not a lie. He searches your face with his wolfish gaze, and you squeeze his hand. “I’ve faith in you.”

Something flinches in his features, as though he doesn’t believe the words, or perhaps he doesn’t feel deserving of them. It passes, and he kisses your forehead. You lean into the simple touch for a moment, before striding over to the ramp, once again taking Hart’s offered hand as you descend onto the dock.

“Thank you for your service.” You smile at him, and he waves you away.

“Hardly a bother, my lady. Enjoy your visit! And blessings be on your babe.” Hart’s grin is like a weathered piano, tea-stained teeth, and he turns to Geralt. The Witcher is settling payment. You glance down at your body in your winter dress, and sigh softly. There isn’t a dress in the world that could conceal your state, at this point, and you grimace at the thought of strangers wishing to touch your bump, or asking strings of bothersome questions. Babies always made people curious.

You hoped Geralt would punch them out.

You feel his hand at the small of your back, and the mark that exists there is warmed pleasantly by the contact. You remember why you’re here, truly; you have to find out what is real, and what is not. You have to free yourselves, and see if you’ll find one another at the end of it all.

It’s not Triss that scares you, you realise. It’s the curse. It’s the idea that no matter how real this all _feels_ , it could simply be a construction, a lie woven by a magic web. And that’s terrifying.

—————

You’re both silent on the way to the mage’s house. Geralt has rented a horse, a powerful jet-black stallion, and you’re riding in the saddle in front of him. He doesn’t offer any information about the mage at first, and you don’t ask it of him. If there’s something you need to know, you trust he’ll tell you.

He doesn’t let you down. “Love, I… you need to know. Many years ago, Triss and I had… an arrangement, of sorts.”

Softly, you hum, encouraging him to continue. You’d figured as much.

“We were together when I visited. I thought that we were on the same page, in regards to our relationship – that she understood I couldn’t give her anything more than… _physical_ comfort.” He spares detail, but you still flinch slightly at the words. Unbidden, Yennefer’s face flashes cruelly in your mind’s eye. He hears the change in your pulse, and slows the horse. “Love…?”

“No,” You gently squeeze your heels into the sides of your temporary steed, clicking your tongue, encouraging his trot again. “I want to hear it. I want to know.”

He sighs. “She wanted more. I tried, for a short time, but it wasn’t there for me. So I told her, and left her. I didn’t want to lie, or to hurt her. I think—” His gloved fingers curl tighter on the reigns. “I _know_ she still feels something for me. I felt like an ass, asking her help to find you, but I didn’t know what else to do. And now, returning with you…”

“It’s like slapping her in the face.” You understand, imagining how you’d feel in her position. Wretched, unwanted – second best. You frown. “She’s done me no harm, I-I don’t wish to hurt her, either.”

Geralt hums softly, as he directs the horse to a stately manor, seeking the shelter of the stables. “We’ve little choice. The witch could be anywhere, now.” He dismounts easily, and helps you down with care. The stallion shakes the snow from his mane, and begins to munch from a trough of feed.

“I know.” You mutter, “I just think… let us tread carefully.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agrees. He leads the way to the front entrance of the manor, the lanterns outside blazing cheerfully to ward off the approaching darkness of the late afternoon. Before he can knock, the massive door swings open on silent hinges.

A woman stands before you, dressed in flowing robes of delicate green silk. Fine gold is threaded in a vine-design that snakes from the sleeves and hemline. It compliments her dark auburn hair, groomed into pretty spiral-curls that frame her lovely features. Her warm skin is splashed with freckles, and her eyes are vivid with curiosity. She’s altogether stunning, commanding, and somehow sweet at the same time. You feel your mouth dry up.

“Triss.” Geralt greets in a low rumble; you can hear the apology in his tone already.

“Geralt.” She returns the pleasantry, “Twice in one year? I’d call myself lucky, but I doubt _this_ visit is social, too.” Her gaze falls upon you. “Considering you’ve brought Y/N.”

She knows your name? _Of course she does_ , you think; Geralt would have unfolded the whole story for her when he first sought her help. You aren’t sure how to greet a court mage, so you settle for ducking your head in a small, respectful nod. “Well met, Lady Merigold.” You manage.

You feel exposed as she looks you up and down, even though you’re covered in your travel-cloak. After a moment, she smiles, not unkindly. “Just ‘Triss’ will do, Y/N. Come in, it’s freezing.”

Geralt glances at you, and you share a silent moment of communication; it’s as if he’s asking if you’re sure about what you’re planning to do. In answer, you step over the threshold. He filters the softest sigh between his lips, and follows.

A servant appears, and you unlace your cloak, offering it to her when she reaches to take it. Triss’ sharp intake of breath makes you flit your focus to her, and you see her eyes upon the curve of your stomach. Your teeth worry at your lower lip nervously.

“Gods, I could feel… the _magic_ , but…” She shakes her head. “How is this…? … _Yennefer._ This is her doing.” Her wide eyes seek Geralt’s; his face is grim. “Gods, she used you… and now _you_ ,” A gesture to your person, “To fulfil her djinn wish. I’ve never seen the like of it in my life.”

You appreciate her intelligence, and the fact that you won’t have to explain the painful details of it all. “The fates are funny, aren’t they?” You quip, weakly. Again she smiles, but there’s a gentle compassion there, a kindness.

“I’m sure you know Geralt’s stance on the fates and destiny, by now.” She takes your arm as though you’re old friends, and begins to walk with you towards the parlour. Geralt follows closely behind. “That there is only chaos, and fate is what you make of the world.”

The Witcher grunts, and you shoot him a look over your shoulder. Triss raises her eyebrows.

“I see it’s still unshakeable. I, on the other hand, believe differently. As a mage, I must understand chaos. I must order it, manipulate it. More than most, I understand that there are things much, much bigger than us in place. Chain reactions that have started long before our births.” Once in her cosy, well-decorated parlour, she sits on a chaise lounge, inviting you to do the same. “Destiny exists. The fates aren’t funny, or cruel, or any other human emotion we wish to impress upon them – they just _are_.”

“It’s still horse-shit.” Geralt gripes, and you reach over to smack his arm.

“Trust me,” Triss muses, “No amount of slapping him will change his mind.” You’re suddenly struck with the mental image of them together; once-lovers, exploring one another’s minds. You have to blink to shake the thought away. It wasn’t a time for petty jealousy.

“Would that it could, though.” You muttered. Triss had to grin.

“I can see why you love her, Geralt.” There’s pain in the mage’s voice, a bittersweet recollection of the past. It twists your heart. There’s silence for a moment, before she blurts out. “ _Gods_ , Yennefer. I knew she was dark, rotten, but…” Her fists clench. “What a _miserable bitch._ ”

You can’t help but burst out laughing at the accurate description, and the mage’s sudden ferocity. Suddenly, you feel a lot more comfortable seated beside her.

—————

It’s fairly easy to catch her up, considering she knows the crux of it, now. Over hot tea and refreshments served by her maid, you detail your travels, the things you’ve discovered – like the incident with the rock troll – and your overall desire to tackle a deep-seated problem. How you want to try to turn this around, regain control, and how that must start with finding the witch.

She’s silent through it all, with you doing much of the talking, and Geralt offering parts of the story where you can’t. When you’ve exhausted your tale, she’s visibly overwhelmed, leaning back into the cushions of the chaise.

“We’ve not much in the way of gold,” You say, “But when I can work again, I will repay you, if you can help us. We need a portal to get to the witch.”

“Portals are easy,” She assures you, “But locating a witch… and possibly one that does not want to be found. _That’s_ where our problem begins.” A frown creases her pretty brow. “Would that you had something of her’s… a lock of hair, a pendant. Did you take anything from her, Geralt?”

“I didn’t even see her.” Geralt admits, looking pained.

Silence lapses, and you fidget with the cuff of your gown, before sitting up straighter. “She _did_ give us something, though. The hex. The marks.”

Geralt’s quick stare is upon Triss. “You used it to help me find Y/N. Could it be used to locate the witch?”

Triss is lost in her own memories, her teachings; you can see her wracking her mind, thinking over the possibilities. “Yes.” She says, very hesitantly. Geralt is instantly wary, and you feel it in the tightening of his body.

“What is it, Triss?” He asks, “What danger?”

“I exhausted the connection, the power from your mark, Geralt.” There’s gravity in her tone, “I can only draw from Y/N.”

“What do you mean?” You wish you understood more about magic.

“ _No._ ” Geralt snarls; in seconds he’s up, pacing like a caged creature. “Absolutely _not._ No. There has to be a better way.”

“I can try scrying, but there are so many magic signatures in the world… it could take months to find her. Maybe years.” Triss’ voice is soothing, but it does little to quell Geralt’s agitation.

“Excuse me,” You interject, “What am I missing, here?”

The mage faces you, and takes your hands. “If I open a portal using your mark, I can send you. But _only_ you. Geralt would not be able to cross.”

You blanch at the information. Again, Geralt growls, threading his hands into his hair. “We return to the mainland. We, we go back to the woods. The original plan.” His voice is a rattlesnake’s warning, a promise of striking venom.

Facing the witch alone was not something you’d considered. Lapsing into silence, you tune out the sound of Geralt’s footfalls, and Triss’ vain attempts to comfort him. The other choice forces your baby into Yennefer’s horrible clutches with the passage of time. Geralt’s plan is rife with uncertainty; even if you do reach the forest, there’s no guarantee the witch still resides there.

“I’ll go.” You murmur, softly.

“Like _fuck_ you will!” Geralt thunders, releasing his frustration at the situation. You bristle.

“It’s our best chance, and you know it.” You level at him, refusing to raise your voice. “Geralt, I won’t gamble on this. If we are to have this child together, I must break the hex.”

“Why?” He pleads, taking your hands, “Why can’t we just… leave it as it is? I will _protect you_. We’ll find a way to stop Yennefer. We’ll raise our child—”

“In a home built on uncertain love?” You supply, “With a prisoner for a mother, and a father that sticks a sword into the throat of any man that so much as glances at her in a risque manner? Geralt, that’s not a _life._ And it’s not a life for a child.”

“My love is not uncertain.” He hisses, “It’s _not._ ”

You glance at Triss, hating that she has to overhear this conversation. She’s removed herself from your space, and is arranging plants across the room. “I know.” You murmur, lowly, “Nor is mine. But which parts are real, and which are magic? Can you say with certainty? I deserve to be released, Geralt. We _both_ do.”

“Stop gathering those, for fuck’s sake!” He addresses Triss, who ignores him. You have no idea what she’s doing, but you place your hands on Geralt’s face, forcing his focus back to you.

“I am _going._ ” You tell him, firmly. A wounded whimper tumbles from his lips. “You must trust me.”

His breath is quick, staggered from his chest. At his sides, his fingers curl and uncurl into fists. Everything about him resists, screams to protect you. You can see the battle he fights in the quiver of his muscles.

“Take this.” Triss crosses the room again, and holds out a small vial. Inside, a blue mist swirls like a tiny hurricane, and you marvel at it. “When you need to return, crush the glass. I will find you.”

You nod silently, pocketing it. Suddenly, Geralt is grabbing you up, holding you to his chest, burying his face into your hair. You curl your arms up over his shoulders and embrace him, nuzzling the slope of his clavicle. “Come back to me.” He begs, his voice cracking. “Promise. _Swear it._ ”

“I will, my love.” You whisper, “I’m indestructible now, remember?”

His gruff laughter is bleak, before he slowly uncoils from you, the lines of his handsome face distorted with distress. You palm his cheek, and smile as bravely as you can. Triss is handing you something again, and you turn; she’s mistakenly grabbed Geralt’s cloak instead of your own, but you like that it smells of him, and you say nothing, pulling it on, nodding your thanks.

You take a step away from Geralt.

His gilded eyes are bright and glossy, and both of you have to ignore the way the mark bites your skin.

“Are you ready?” Triss’ voice is gentle. You tear your gaze from the Witcher, and nod again, not trusting your voice. She raises both her hands, directing one at you, and one at the wall; you feel a sharp sting at your lower back and bite off a cry of pain, at the same time as a swirling blue circle of light opens. “Go!” The mage orders, urgent, and before you can second-guess yourself, you stride into the portal.

It swallows you, and vanishes. Triss breathes with the exertion, and glances at all the dried-up plants. Geralt sinks heavily onto the chaise, cradling his head in his hands.

“Destiny would not bring you all this way for nothing, Geralt.” Triss tries, and is answered with a wracking rumble.

“Destiny can go _fuck itself._ ” He spits.

The mage gently sighs, and takes up a seat opposite the Witcher. She wants to make a jab about his poor company, but she doesn’t have the heart. She’s never seen him look so wretched. Carefully, she places a dark blue stone on the table; when it glows, she’ll know to locate you.

There’s nothing for either of them to do but watch it, and wait.


	14. Part Fourteen - Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You confront the witch that binds Geralt and you together. Anxiously, he awaits your return with Triss.

Nobody had told you that travelling through a portal felt a lot like spinning in place until you made yourself ill.

When you tumble out the other end, you brace yourself on all-fours, swimming in Geralt’s cloak, drawing in long gulps of air to ease your queasiness. Thankfully, you are a master at managing sickness by now, and the feeling passes quickly. You blink at the stone beneath your hands.

Warm… marble?

You’d expected a cave floor, dirtied by animal activity, perhaps littered with bones. Or maybe live toads hopping about the place. Or snakes? Sheepishly, you think back to Triss’ lovely estate, and realise you are dealing with magic. Why would anyone choose to live in a hovel when they could live in…

Raising your head, you glance around. A palace, you realise. This place is _breathtakingly_ opulent.

There are no cauldrons or crows, no peculiar vials, no jars swimming with pickled eyeballs. Gods, you knew nothing of magic. The room you are in is a parlour; the white-and-gold veined marble you are kneeling on is polished to a gloss, and reflects the twinkling candle-lit sconces that dot the walls in precise increments. Four obsidian pillars are placed in a square, bordering the area. Two chaise lounges upholstered in plush burgundy velvet with gilded trim sit opposite one another; between them, a small, circular pond bubbles with the spout of a fountain. As you push yourself up, steadying your weight, you peek into the water. Instead of fish, bio-luminescent jellyfish swim in peculiar pulses, glowing brighter when they bump into each other.

You feel like a soup-stain on a starched shirt at a grand ball.

“You’re much later than I anticipated.” A voice echoes through the chamber, and you pull your sword from the scabbard strapped to your back with a swift movement, turning to face your oppressor.

Much like her home, she’s not at all what you expected.

You know that court mages can choose their appearance, but witches? You thought them to be hags, outcast by society, bowed by the weight of scoliosis. The more you are seeing of the world, the more you are realising that truly you know nothing at all.

The woman that stands before you is so pale that she makes Geralt look like a sun-seeking fisherman. You can see the greenish trace of her veins at her delicate wrists, and at the curve of her porcelain neck. She wears the most extraordinary gown; it floats in soft, draping tulle around her slender body, cut dangerously low and hardly covering her small breasts. The fragile silver of the material yields to a peony pink blush at the hemline, as though she brushed through a puddle of the colour and simply let the gown drink the pigment up. Her hair, cut into a blunt, pin-straight bob, is so starkly white that the crimson of her plush lips becomes an accessory rather than a part of her body, and her kohl-rimmed eyes feature irises that barely hint at green.

Were you a weaker woman – or perhaps not bound by her hex – you’d be grovelling at her feet, begging her to use you as a footstool. As it is, your knees are trembling.

“You aren’t easy to find.” You blurt out, your words breathy. Her expression remains impassive, but she sweeps closer; she moves like liquid, the effortless tumble of mercury droplets. Lowering herself down onto the comfort of a chaise, she gestures for you to do the same. You are in her dominion, and she hasn’t tried to murder you – yet – and so you comply, slouching over to the other chair, taking comfort in the mass of Geralt’s cloak. You can smell him, the earth and spice of him, and it bolsters you. You sheath your sword, slowly.

“I prefer it that way.” Her voice is neutral, and you have nothing to say to that; for a moment, the only sound is the cheerful fountain between you.

“My partner offended you,” You begin, wary, “I am here to make amends.”

“Your _partner_ now, is he?” The woman smiles, and it’s like the last sliver of a waning moon.

“He is.” You challenge, straightening your spine.

“So sure.” Clicking her tongue, the witch leans forward, pillowing her chin in one hand. “Witchers are not built to be tied down, little flower. I have walked this world for more than a century and I have yet to see one play at house.”

Your fingers curl into the cloak, and you take a deep breath. “Geralt is different. Our circumstances are… _different._ ”

“Are they?” She croons, “Geralt. That is his name, hmm? The man who murdered my pets?”

“Your _pets_ were killing innocent people.” You retort, and her gaze becomes fierce.

“There _are_ no innocent people.” She growls, and you note the fine point of her canines. She’s built for the slick of arterial blood, for the rend of flesh from bone. _Predator_.

“I am not here to argue philosophy, Lady…?” You wait for her to give her name. When she does not, you continue. “I am here to apologise for the offence, and to ask for your mercy. Release us from the hex that binds us together.”

She laughs, then; it’s a sound like a stalactite shattering, a cruel winter frost. “Unbind you? Is _that_ what you want? It may be the only thing keeping you together, little flower. If I release you, well. I believe you’ll find your circumstances might become quite… common.”

“You don’t know _anything_.” You seethe, unable to contain the anger, and hating that she’s located a deep-rooted fear, coaxing it to the surface of your skin like an ugly bruise. The momentum of it propels you to a stand, and the cloak slips loose.

She stares at your belly, and smirks. “Well, well. I know enough that perhaps it’s not the Witcher that needs a leash, considering your condition.” Her head tilts, and the slip of snow-strands tumble over her exposed shoulder. “ _Partners_ , are you?”

“It’s his.” Your teeth are pinched. Her eyebrows raise.

“I’d call you a fool, but I fear that doing so would be unfair to fools.” The mock of her painted lips makes you want to stride over and slap her lovely face, but then you truly _would_ be foolish.

“I do not care what you call me, or what you think.” You inform her, levelly, “Our circumstances are unique. I ask you to name your price for our release. Whatever the drowners brought you – I will match it.”

She makes a sound like a purr, holding her hand out. You brace yourself, recognising the gesture from Yennefer and Triss’ movements. Nothing happens – save for the faintest purple glow at your belly, where the babe grows. As if bothered, it kicks, and you place your hands on the bump.

Her expression has changed from vicious to disbelieving; her lips are parted in shock, and were she not already ghostly pale, you are sure she’d have blanched. “ _Impossible_.” She whispers, “I do not believe it.”

You say nothing, standing your ground, fists curled into a clench at your sides.

And then she laughs.

—————–

Geralt is going to wear a hole in Triss’ floor, she’s sure of it. His footfalls are heavy as he paces in front of the fire, back and forth, the piercing glint of his gaze never shifting from the stone set on the table. She doesn’t know if he’s even blinking.

“You’d feel if something was wrong.” The mage tries to assure him, her voice gentle.

“I know.” He snaps; his hand goes to the small of his back, rubbing. It aches strangely, but he can still feel you. “I shouldn’t have let her go alone, Triss. I should be finding a way to get there, too. Can’t you scry for her again?”

“I _tried,_ Geralt.” Triss sounds exhausted. “I really tried. Whoever this witch is – she’s powerful. Cloaked. Even if I used something of Y/N’s to open a portal, I doubt it would hold stable. And I need my energy to bring her back safely.” It’s the fourth time they’ve had the same conversation.

It doesn’t ease the Witcher’s mind, just like the other three times.

He growls, pivots on the balls of his feet, and keeps pacing. “She should be done by now.”

“It’s been ten minutes, Geralt.”

“How _long_ does it take to talk to a witch?” He spits, “Hexes can’t be that complicated.”

“No,” Triss agrees, “But you presume the witch amenable to a pleasant discussion.” Geralt’s molten eyes flick to hers, savage, and the mage sighs. “She’s smart. She can do this. _Sit down_.”

The Witcher pauses mid-pace, before he groans, and takes the advice. He slumps onto the chaise beside Triss, threading his fingers into his wild hair. His gaze is upon the stone again. “If something happens to them…” He growls, and his old friend puts a hand on his knee.

“Shhh.” She soothes, “We must have faith and patience.”

Geralt knows the cruelty of the world, and tries his best to access faith or patience in the depths of his racing mind. They are present, but the low burn of them does not warm the fear nipping icily at his heart.

—————–

You watch, growing steadily more irritated as the witch’s mirth consumes her. She heaves with laughter until she has to wipe away tears, hunched over, clutching her sides. She gasps for breath, and fans her face as if she’s heated, though her skin remains pale as ever. You wait, folding your arms beneath your bust.

“Oh, but it’s _too rich._ ” She finally manages, lazing back on the lounge, her grin like the ivory keys of a piano in a funeral parlour. “Sit, sit.”

You’re trembling, trying to steady your breathing, but rigidly you obey her. “I feel I am missing the joke.”

“You are.” She trills, “But do not fret, little flower. I will include you in this, the most _delicious_ of poor fortune I’ve ever come across.” Leaning in, she lowers her voice, like you’re old companions gossiping over a luncheon. “When the Witcher slaughtered my pets, I saw what he was. Beast. _Animal._ There’s no man about him.” Your muscles coil tighter in defense of your love, but you bite the inside of your cheek. “And so I cursed him as one. May he mark the first one he lays with; may they be bound, like lovely monogamous swans – for life. And, knowing his nature, he would stray; his mate, broken-hearted, would seek comfort elsewhere. But such an arrangement would mean their fatality. He would have that blood on his hands.”

You’d already figured out as much, and she knew it, too. “But, curses, hexes – they must have an exit. It’s such a dull thing, really. But I observed it nonetheless. _If_ his mate bore him a child, they would be cursed no longer. A happy family! Such a perfect exit to choose – I know of his infertility. I was ensuring his torment. And yet here you stand, heavy with his babe.”

“So why has the hex not lifted?” You hiss, trembling, your pulse a persistent drum in your ears.

“Because,” She licks her lips like a serpent, “It’s not _his_ baby, is it?” Again, she laughs. “It is promised to _another._ ”

Rage licks your veins, white-hot, and you dig your fingers into the velvet of the lounge. “It _will_ be our baby.” You swear, “We will find a way.”

“That’s adorable.” She giggles, “What, you’ll find another djinn? Have you any idea how rare those are? Or, oh—perhaps you thought _I’d_ help you. How very naïve.” With a casual gesture, she holds out her hand; a small bundle appears, sticks and bone bound with a red thread. For some reason, you can’t take your eyes off it.

“What is that?” You whisper.

“The _other_ exit.” She informs, “Leaving the hex intact would mean a loving – what is it, three months left? Two? In any case, until the one promised the babe comes to collect it, you’ll live in the little bubble of _lies_ you’ve created, content. And what if the Witcher _does_ find a way to defeat the clever mage? Then all my work shall be undone. Tsk, tsk. I do not like being beaten at my own game.”

“Wait—” You interrupt, as she curls her fingers around the object.

“I prefer the _revel_ of chaos and uncertainty.” All you see is her smile, glossy with the venom of her words. Her hand flexes, and the bundle cracks.

A rush of agony bolts through your body, forcing your back to bow; you feel the singe at your lumbar, the flame of the mark dissolving. Your mind is fraying, the pain of sudden separation splintering your consciousness; what you could feel of Geralt dissolves away like a drop of ink in a vast ocean. Your scream entwines with the witch’s mirth; blindly, you fumble for your pocket, and press hard against the glass vial tucked away there, feeling the fragile glass shatter. When you fall back against the chaise, you do not meet with the cushion; you tumble through a portal, vanishing from the marble parlour.

“Ah,” The witch sighs, “Never have I laughed _so_ hard, not for a long time.” Lazily, she conjures a small pool of dark water. Whatever happens from now, she has amusement to last months.

—————–

“ _Fuck!_ ” Geralt roars, so suddenly and loudly that Triss drops the teacup she was holding, startled. The Witcher hisses and hunches forward, one hand on the small of his back. “The hex, the _mark_ —fuck! It’s—” He’s panting, bearing the pain as every thread comes unwoven, every day of connection severed; you’re gone from his senses, as lost to him as anyone else in the world.

Triss is on her knees before him in an instant, gripping his face. “Geralt? Geralt. _Talk_ to me. Is she—what’s happening?” Sharply, she glances over her shoulder at the stone; it’s glowing a bright blue. She wastes no time in holding out her hand, opening the portal that will draw you back to them. Then she returns her attention to the shuddering Witcher, who has fallen silent.

“Shh,” She comforts, pressing her forehead against his, “She’s _coming back_. It’s okay. _It’s okay._ ”

Like a drowning man he grasps at her, pulling the mage closer, burying his face into her neck. He is adrift, confused, burning alive with foreign sensations that he has no idea how to cope with. She cradles him, presses her mouth against his crown, and lets him ride it out.

You land on your back in Triss’ parlour, gasping for breath, and dart your gaze about like a cornered rabbit, desperate for safety. Pushing up off the floor, your eyes land upon two figures in a clutching embrace. Geralt and Triss. He’s pawing her, nuzzling her skin, and she’s whispering to him.

It’s the first and last thing you see before blessed unconsciousness claims your fatigued body, the darkness sweeping over your eyes as you willingly succumb to the comfort of nothingness.


	15. Part Fifteen - Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You awaken into a world where you are no longer bound by magic to Geralt. You must make choices about the immediate future. Jaskier and Verra have news.

You gradually awaken, pillowed by the softest mattress you've ever had the pleasure of laying upon. For a moment, there is only the cushioning warmth, the downy cover lovingly tucked around you, and you lay in the laze-haze between dream and reality, loathe to emerge. A sweet, feminine voice is calling your name. You recognise the tone, and turn your head sluggishly, blinking the blear of sleep away.

Triss is seated beside you, her forehead creased with concern. She's alone, dressed in a comfortable gown of violet; it's still decadently made, but it is what you presume constitutes 'house clothing' when you're a court mage. When you catch her eyes, she smiles hesitantly.

“Hey,” She soothes, “You're back with us. You've been asleep for awhile.”

“Where...?” You croak, the dryness of your throat making itself known. She pours warm tea – you smell lemongrass and ginger – and carefully holds it for you to sip.

“Geralt is sleeping.” She informs you, already knowing what you were going to ask, “He wouldn't settle, so I... may have _influenced_ him to rest.” Her voice is slightly sheepish, but you smirk.

“Thank you for that.” You sigh, resting your head back down. Your body still aches; the stress of the past few days has caught up to you. “He's not the greatest at taking care of himself.”

“Don't I know it.” She chuckles, and you share an uncomfortable moment; two women, one Witcher. She still loves him. It's evident in her beautiful features; you saw it every time she spoke to him. “Listen,” She continues, lacing her hands together, “I can only imagine... what you _saw,_ when you came back through the portal--”

“I saw a friend comforting my distraught partner, Triss.” Your voice is even. You reach over to put your hands over her fidgeting ones, and she stills, looking grateful. “The pain was... intense. He must have felt it, too. I'm glad you were there for him.”

When she exhales, you see tension melting away from her body as she slumps back into the seat. “Gods, I just-- I thought about how it must have looked. I thought you'd hate me, or want to stab me in the throat. I thought you'd think me like Yennefer. We might have attended the same school, but we are _nothing_ alike. She is savage, cunning; she wants the whole world, or nothing at all. There's no shades of grey for her.”

“I have been through... well, over the past year or so... a _lot,_ Triss. I've met a lot of people. I've learned a lot of things. I think myself a decent judge of character. When I met you – I knew who you were, when you took my arm. You're a good person.” Your voice lowers. “You still love Geralt, and you feel guilty about it. I know that.”

She startles, and bites her lower lip, before glancing down at the rug, toeing the pattern with her bare feet. “I've always been transparent, when it comes to my heart. I think it's a fault; others disagree.”

“ _I_ disagree.” You tell her, “Kindness, selflessness; it's rare.”

With a little hum, she raises the teacup, and you drink more. The baby shifts, and you grunt, placing your hand over the bump. She glances down at your hand, and you see the question in her warm gaze; you nod your permission.

As she lays her slender brown fingers over your belly, she concentrates. Sure enough, the babe stirs again; little fluttering kicks as it turns in your womb. She pulls her hand away with a gasp, and then giggles. The sound makes you smile, too.

“Gods, but does that not feel... so _weird?_ To carry...?” She asks, and then, “Forgive me. What a rude question.”

“No,” You wave her off, “It's quite fine. You should hear the things Verra – my, uh, midwife, of sorts – asks me. It does feel weird. Sometimes like butterflies, sometimes like it's hell-bent on making me pee myself, drumming on my bladder.”

She laughs again, and you let yourself do the same. It feels nice. “I never really wanted children. I adore plants, and animals. I wanted to live in a forest, in a house made of trees and vines, and grow my own food, and tend the soil.” Wistfully, she picks at a thread on the covers. “But I have duties. Perhaps someday.”

“Hang the court,” You scoff, “You should do what you want, Triss.”

“Would that it were that simple.” She sighs, picking up your tea. After a pause, she speaks again. “You... are right, though. I _do_ still love him. I think I always will. But I do know that it's a solitary flame that burns. _His_ light – it burns for you.”

You nibble at your bottom lip. “What if...” Your voice is small, “It changes, now? Now the hex is gone. I can't feel him. I am told again and again – _Witchers_ _wander_. They don't settle down. What if it was just the hex keeping him by my side?”

“Geralt is not a typical Witcher.” Triss muses, “He lasted more trials. He seeks a path of compassion, even when there is an easier route. I think once he _did_ believe the teachings – the lessons that are burnt into their bodies. No emotions. He wanted to believe them because it makes his job easier. It makes being a mutant less... lonely.”

You finish the tea, and place the cup down. She pours more. “But now...?” You wonder.

“This is the second time I've seen him in a year. Before then, it had been... Gods, I am not sure. A long time. He's changed, a lot. But...” She hesitates, and you urge her on with your gaze, “When _I_ knew him, he wasn't... _easily satisfied._ ”

A shaky sigh shivers from your breast. “So you understand my concerns, then.”

“I do.” She gently squeezes your hand again. The fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth as you both lapse into thought. “What if... you spend a time away from him?”

The thought makes you a little queasy, but you want to hear her out. “What do you mean?”

“Your friends – Jaskier and Verra, they are in Oxenfurt across the sea, yes? Perhaps you should spend a few weeks there. You'll be safe, you'll have things to do – there's such a vast library there. Geralt... well, he'll probably go hunt something. You know him; if he's presented with a problem, he'll go find something to stick his sword in.”

You snort. “Actually, he's quite good at defusing situations with talk, now. If he can.”

“Ah,” She smiles, “He's getting wiser, then.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

Her curls bounce as she shakes her head, amused. “All I am suggesting is a _brief_ time apart. You'll know how you feel at the end of it, and so will he. Together, you'll just question his motives – is he there out of guilt, is he staring at _that woman,_ is he thinking about _someone else_ when you lay together.” Her smile has vanished, and her gaze flicks away. “Believe me, I know.”

You acknowledge her wisdom with a little sound. “I... don't even know where to begin to thank you, Triss. For all you have done. I am not sure I'd be as graceful and giving if my ex-lover and his knocked-up lady turned up on my doorstep. Fuck, I'd... probably tell them to stick it.” Her eyes return, and they're glassy with unshed tears. It makes your own prickle, hot. “You brought us together. You broke the hex.”

“I was merely a passage.” She whispers. You shake your head.

“No.” Sitting up slowly, you reach over to grasp both her hands. “You were _so_ much more. Triss, if I have a girl, I'd like her second name to be yours, if you'd give me your blessing. I haven't dared think of first names, but... I owe you so much. It'd be an honour.”

“Really?” She breathes, obviously touched. “I-- of _course_. Of course you have my blessing. But only if I get to meet her.” A solitary tear marches down her freckled cheek, and that's all it takes for you to start crying, too. She leans forward and scoops you into a hug.

“Yes.” You swear, “You'll meet the baby. We'll find a way. Gods, I'll move every star in the heavens if I must.”

“Yennefer _won't_ win.” Triss sniffles into your hair.

“No, she won't.” Your words hold the weight of an oath.

\----------------

You're up and around before Geralt is. Triss suggests that she can undo the sleeping spell she's put him under, but you overrule her. He'll wake up naturally when his body is rested, and judging by how deeply he's out, you know he badly needs the recovery time. You eat supper with the mage, gossip about little nothings, and giggle your way through chocolate cake in the parlour. She's delightful company, and you relax into it.

She prepares a bath for you before bed, and leaves you to wash. You're just stepping into the water when the door swings open with enough force to slam into the wall, and you scream in surprise, grabbing a towel to cover your front. Geralt is looming in the doorway, all sleep-ruffled and bright-eyed from his slumber – although his handsome features are creased with irritation.

“I'm so sorry,” He growls, striding over, “Triss had me under... some powerful _thing._ She knows I'm resistant to magic, but there are exceptions--”

“I'm still not sorry!” You hear her yell, and you have to bite your lower lip to disguise your grin.

“--And I should have been here when you awoke,” Geralt continues, “But I--”

“Geralt.” You interrupt him; he babbles on regardless.

“--Was so deeply under. I think it was one of those spells where--”

“ _Geralt!_ ” You insist, and he finally shuts up, looking guilty. “Darling, close the door. I'm very naked.”

“Oh, fuck.” He grunts, and turns to do so. You shake your head at him fondly, and lower the towel. He's seen you nude – even before the hex – but not like this. Not heavy with his child, all tender breasts and filled-out hips and stupid swollen ankles. Heat pricks at your cheeks as you sink into the water, and it's not because the bath is so deliciously warm. “Triss took wonderful care of me. I _told_ her not to lift the spell, because you needed sleep. So don't you dare yell at her again. And don't try to tell me you don't feel better for it.”

He takes up a seat, grouchy, although you see his gilded eyes flick over your form helplessly, hungry. Shyly, you begin to wash, lathering yourself, hiding beneath soap bubbles. “I do feel... less...”

“Like you might keel over from stress at any minute?” You supply, and he smirks, that half-a-smile that always does things to your nethers.

“Yes.” He murmurs, “Less like that.”

You begin to comb your hair; you can see that he wants to offer to help, but you can also see the hesitation in his face. It must mirror your own. “How _else_... do you feel?” You question, trying to keep your tone casual, hating that you fail.

“Much the same.” He hurries to say, and you catch his eye. He looks wild, desperate. “I don't think anything has changed. I told you – I felt deeply about you _before_ the hex.”

“You _felt deeply,_ or you _loved_ me?” You further press, setting the comb down.

“I-- it's--” Frustrated, he rubs a hand over his face. “Love is hard for me to navigate. I have little experience. I, I've read much about it. Spoken to Jaskier. Gods, he goes on and on about suns exploding and tidal waves and I don't fucking know what else. I feel...”

Your heartbeat is erratic and he must be able to hear it, but you school your features. You leave the silence there for him to pursue, not rushing his words. Quietly, you rinse your hair out.

“I feel like, like my chest hurts.” He tries to explain, “If I think about you hurt, or crying, or angry with me. I feel like I'd climb the tallest mountain in the world to pick one flower, if it would make you smile. I feel, I feel like I _need_ you. Like water, or food.” He lifts his head, and the amber of his eyes lock with yours; of course, you're unable to battle emotion back, now, and you're sniffling. “That's... that's love, isn't it? I don't feel like that about anyone else. I don't remember a time when I did.”

You wipe your face with your wet hand, nodding. “That sounds like love, yes.”

He makes a sound of relief, cradling his head in his hands. “Fuck, I just... inside. It's all twisted. I hate that I can't _feel_ you anymore, but I know that things will be clearer now for us. Right?”

You think on Triss' advice. You're two days freed of the hex now – but will his feelings last? What happens when whatever it is within him untwists? The hateful voices of the succubus and the witch echo in your head; _Witchers always stray._

And you know you both deserve time.

“Geralt.” You whisper, turning in the bath. He looks up, and you hate that he seems so confused, so lost. “I feel the same way. And it won't change... for me.” You swallow thickly. Already he can feel some kind of rejection, and you can tell by the tensing of his shoulders. “But I don't know what it's like for you. And if we're together – maybe I'll just influence you.”

“No.” He stubbornly snarls, “I don't want to be away from you.”

“Not for _long_.” You insist, wanting to reach out and grasp his hands. But you're too scared of that, even – too scared that touching him will somehow taint his mind, guilt him into staying with you. “Three weeks. I'll stay with Verra and Jaskier in Oxenfurt. It's safe there.”

“I don't like it.” Growling, he rises from the chair, and paces. “I can't protect you, there. No, I-- _why_ do we need time? No.”

“You can't spend your whole life watching my back, Geralt.” You point out, “I'll go mad, for a start. And that's not how healthy relationships work. The time apart – it's trust. You'll return to me after three weeks, knowing what you want. Do you understand?”

“Because I'm a Witcher?” He spits the word out like snake venom, “I can't _possibly_ know love for myself. You don't trust me. What happened with Yennefer—”

“Has _nothing_ to do with this.” You state, firmly. “You were a victim of her scheme. Any vitriol I feel over that – it's directed at her. I've told you that.”

“There could be no one else.” His voice has changed to a plea. “How could there be? I can't... I won't...” Angrily, he fists his own hair, and sits on the edge of the bed.

“By the time you come back to me, I'll have read every book concerning our predicament in Oxenfurt. I swear it. Please, Geralt. For both of us. I can't be by your side if I am unsure, and you can't deny your mutations. I love you, all of you, as you are. But that doesn't _change_ what you are.” Your voice is soft and apologetic, but he still looks as if you've slapped him.

“Do you wish I could change?” He asks, brokenly.

“No.” You ache for him; you want to climb on his lap, soaking as you are, and kiss every furrow in his brow away. It takes all of your strength not to. “Never. I fell in love with Geralt of Rivia. As you stand before me now, I love you.”

Breath leaves his chest in a slow stutter. “But not enough to believe me.”

“Geralt, _no,_ I--”

“I'll see you in three weeks.” He snarls, unable to throw you a parting glance; he stalks from the room, despite your cries of protest. There's no chance you'd be able to catch him in time, unsteady as you are, and you hear the front door slam.

\---------------- 

You spend a miserable, restless night in that glorious bed, hating that you're wasting the time tossing and turning in it, and you break your fast the next day with Triss, explaining how the conversation went. She's patient, kind as ever; you're sorry that you're turning to her with your relationship drama, but she doesn't complain.

“He hates what he is.” She reminds you, and you nod.

“And I just... rubbed it in his face.” You moan, fiddling with the shell on a hard-boiled egg. “It came out wrong. I just want to be sure he's with me out of love. Not just for the baby, or out of some... sense of obligation. I'd _hate_ that. Caging him like he's an animal, using a child as bait.”

“I think he knows.” Triss assures you, “Or he'll realise.”

“What if he... doesn't come back?” Your voice is wobbly.

“He will.” The mage sounds so certain that you have no choice but to believe her. “The babe you carry – it's part of his destiny. And maybe he doesn't believe in _'that shit',_ ” She lowers her voice to make a poor impression of him, and you smile bleakly, “But that doesn't make it untrue.”

Slowly, you nod. You glance at your bags, and heave out a sigh. “I am not looking forward to that boat ride back.”

Triss scoffs. “Are you serious? You're sitting here with a mage, remember? A portal to the university gates is no effort at all.”

Your stomach – and your aching feet – want to scream in thanks. Instead, you reach over to hug her firmly. Your belly gets in the way, but she returns the embrace as best she can. “Triss Merigold, you're not a mage. You're some kind of _goddess._ ”

“Well,” She twirls a strand of her hair, “Some pretty lady once told me I should hold dominion over a forest. Maybe I'll take up the title then. Goddess of the forests.”

“It has a nice ring.” You agree, smiling.

One of her hands touches a vase of daisies atop the counter, and the other points at a wall beside you. The portal opens up, and you pick up your bag. You take a deep breath, prepared for the weird sensation you'll experience travelling through it, this time.

“You'd best be coming back here in a few months, Y/N.” Triss instructs you sternly.

“You'd best have that chocolate cake ready for me when I do.” You retort, squeezing her hand one last time, before you step through the swirling gate.

As you vanish, Triss smiles to herself, and glances around her empty manor. _More green_ , she thinks. She needs more plants.

\---------------- 

The portal zips behind you as you step out onto a stone path that leads up to an impressive building. Perhaps it's because you've travelled once before via portal, or perhaps it's because the distance was not far, but you don't feel the same crippling sickness clench your belly. You're a little dizzy, but it passes. There are students and other people entering and exiting the building, and a few of them glance at your entrance curiously, but you're soon ignored again. It must be fairly common for mages to travel here.

Holding your bag tighter, you ascend the steps and enter the building. It boasts a grand lobby, richly furnished with wooden chairs and polished tables, a small hive of activity as students, teachers and visitors thread their way through it. Many hallways branch away from the room, and you have an overwhelming sense of confusion, unsure where to begin looking. You must look as hopeless as you feel, because a woman approaches you with an open ledger. She's in her later years, her tawny hair streaked with grey, and she seems kindly.

“Have you class today, dear?” She asks, and you shake your head.

“No, I am here to visit a friend. Jaskier-- uhh, Julian.” You rack your brain. “I think he teaches... music? Or philosophy?” _Or,_ you think to yourself, _if you have a class on ale and innuendo. He teaches that._

“Ah, Professor Pankratz!” She trills, and you absolutely cannot connect the scholarly name with Jaskier, who you've literally seen pass out into a bramble-bush. “He teaches in the south wing, dear. I believe he has no lessons this morning – you'll find his quarters down that corridor.” She points, “Second floor, third door on the left. His name should be on the door.”

You thank her, and wander down the path she pointed out to you. The stone floor of the lobby yields to polished wood in the hallway, and your footsteps echo in the high ceilings above you. There is less traffic here; you pass a student begging with a teacher for a better grade, promising another assignment, and you feel a strange mixture of amusement and shame. You are literate, but you boast no great knowledge – unless how to murder a man and make it look accidental counts.

Ascending the stairs, you seek out the door as instructed, and are amused by the script written elegantly on parchment, slotted behind glass: _Mr and Mrs Pankratz._ Setting your bag down, you knock.

“...you don't stop leaving your socks in the bed, I'm going to begin using them as kindling.” You hear Verra's bossy voice approach, and feel a flood of longing. She opens the door, and her expression morphs from mild irritation to glee upon seeing you. She screams, and throws herself into your arms; you laugh, and catch her as best you can, embracing her.

“What?” Jaskier's voice is startled, “What's happening, love? Are you-- oh!” The bard appears, and you're amused to see him looking so very formal. He's wearing a crisp white dress-shirt and a sensible pair of black breeches, tucked into buttery leather boots. “Y/N! Thank the Gods. I'm glad we didn't need to go on a rescue mission. Come in!”

“I'd love to,” You giggle, “But I have acquired a growth.”

Verra doesn't relinquish her grip on you. “I missed you _so much!_ Oh, your belly – it's so much bigger! Are you well? Are you-- where's Geralt?”

“Verra,” You pry her arms from around you, “It's been five days.”

“Feels like five years.” Jaskier moans, and you snort.

“How are your classes, _Professor Julian?_ ” You address him, and he shoots you a look.

“I remember every day why I left this place.” He grouches, rubbing his face with his hands. You see the glint of a golden ring there, and blink; Verra takes your hands, and you look down as she pulls you into the room. She is wearing a matching one.

“You guys really committed to the whole 'married' thing, huh?” You joke, “Those are nice.”

“Uh, actually,” Verra glances at Jaskier, who raises his shoulders in a shrug, “We... well. We got married.”

You stare at her, waiting for her to fall over herself with mirth, self-amused at the joke. When she does not, you look at Jaskier, who looks almost sheepish. “Wait. _Wait._ You-- _what?_ ”

Jaskier rises, and picks up your bag. “It seems we have a little catching up to do, hm?”

Snatching Verra's hand, you examine the ring. There's a 'J' engraved on it, surrounded by beautiful geometric linework. Stunned, you sit back into a chair, taking the weight off your poor feet.

“Just _a little,_ I think.” You agree. At least you have the free time. The thought tugs at your heart, and you wonder where Geralt is by now. You hope he's being safe. You hope he's warm.

You hope he's thinking of you, too.


	16. Part Sixteen - Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Oxenfurt, you study up on djinns. Time goes slowly, and it gives both you and Geralt a chance to reflect. Once three weeks are up, you are ready to meet again -- but nothing is ever so simple, is it?

Two weeks have passed in the most sluggish of manners, and you are bored.

Even Jaskier and Verra’s stories aren’t as exciting as you’d like. As you leave the library – another day wasted on research regarding djinn wishes – you recall the tale of their wedding.

\---------------

“We had to get rings,” Verra had said, “And initially we thought cheap ones. ‘Cause it was just for show.”

“But I didn’t want any of the gaudy tin they had for sale at the market.” Jaskier said. You’d smiled good-naturedly.

“So we went to a jeweller, and after... some discussion—”

“After you got me in a headlock.” Jaskier corrected.

“Yes, well, you weren’t listening, and I’m your wife.” She lifted her chin elegantly.

“Not then you weren’t!”

You’d cleared your throat pointedly, and Verra had launched back into the story. “Right, so, we have these nice rings. The kind I always wanted for my wedding. And I, I mean I guess I got kind of teary...”

“You cried so hard outside that you nearly threw up.” Jaskier pointed out, and she slapped his wrist. “Ow.”

“Yes, I was _emotional_. But then _you_ got emotional. And you said, what if it wasn’t fake? What if we used these rings and got married, then and there?” Verra regarded Jaskier fondly, and he smirked.

“And she laughed at me. She laughed, and I turned red, and then _somehow_ we were at the city hall, signing a fancy piece of paper.”

“I found a hat to wear on the way.” Verra added, as if the detail was important.

You’d narrowed your eyes at both of them. “How drunk were you both?”

“Oh, a little.” Verra confessed,

“Extremely.” Jaskier said, at the same time. They exchanged a glance, almost sheepish.

“Okay, we were really, _really_ drunk. And the next day we kind of... talked a lot about it. We could claim no consummation and have the marriage declared void—”

“There was _totally_ consummation.” Jaskier crooned, and was summarily smacked again, “Ow.”

“But we, well. Turns out we...” Verra actually blushed.

“We love each other.” Jaskier finished for her, and she nodded. “And so far, it’s working out well.”

“Well, fuck.” You’d snorted, raising your glass of juice, “You two are ridiculous, and I adore you both, and if you’re happy? So am I. Here’s to many years.”

\---------------

You smile, remembering the chaotic tale – simple as it was – and although it was hardly a story for the ages, you suppose it fits them well enough. You balance a book on your hip, and keep one hand on your stomach. Verra thinks you are closer to seven-and-a-half months along, and you honestly have lost track a bit. All you know is that you waddle more than walk, your stupid feet hurt all the time, and Verra had to have new gowns made for you as the winter months grew less chilly – and as your stomach stopped fitting into the old ones.

Sleeping is horrible. You have a lovely bedroom, courtesy of the Pankratz family – still a novel thought – and many pillows to prop yourself up. But it is difficult to get comfortable, and the babe is wriggling almost constantly, and you need to use the chamber pot at least three times a night. All in all, you are irritable, sick of reading, and lonely.

The loneliness is the worst. You’d asked for this time apart, but you missed Geralt deeply. If your mind wasn’t occupied, it ran straight to thoughts of him. Was he well? Was he thinking of you? How long until you’d see him again? What if the broken hex changed it all? _What if?_

You are jostled out of your thoughts by the sound of a muffled moan coming from the conservatory that you are passing. The hour is nearing suppertime, and most of the students are in the dining hall. You can’t tell if the noise is born of pleasure or pain, so you creep – as stealthily as you can, considering your condition – towards the verdant foliage of the small area, kept alive in winter by magic. There, pressed against the trunk of a tree, is a man that you do not recognise, legs parted, in the process of being thoroughly serviced.

You recognise the man knelt between his knees, however. _Jaskier_. You suppress the gasp that wants to leap from your throat and whirl away, hastening back to the rooms. Your mind is racing. Gods, had it been Jaskier? Yes, you are certain. Can you tell Verra?

Your heart sinks as you realise that you have to. She deserves to know. Gods, _you’d_ want to know.

Solemnly, you enter your shared quarters, and place the book down. Verra is humming at the kitchenette, dicing potatoes. “Oh, hello!” She chirps, “How was the library?”

“Not very instructing.” You reply hesitantly, taking a seat at the table. You’d help her, but she always shoos you away.

She senses your disposition immediately. “What happened?” She asks softly, putting the knife down, “Did you read something bad? Gods, don’t tell me it gets _worse_.”

“No, Verra, I...” You swallow, and meet her eyes. They are wide with concern, dual tempered chocolate pools. You reach out and grab her hands, starchy from the potatoes. “On my way back here, just now, I saw Jaskier.” She tilts her head, and you cringe. “With another man.”

She hums, and squeezes your fingers. “Kind of tall, blonde, handsome in a sort of boring and obvious way?” She asks, and you startle.

“Um. Yes?” You recall, frowning.

“Professor Leopald. Gay as a rainbow, more’s the pity for me, because he does have the most _delicious_ looking cock—”

“That your _husband_ was _sucking_.” You impress your words upon her, wondering if she’s gone into shock.

“Oh, yes.” She shrugs, “They often get together after his chemistry lecture. Although they’re usually not so public about it, the kinky bastards. I’ll have to ask him about that...” She trails off, and returns to the potatoes.

You’re a little stunned. “So you’re... okay with this?”

“Honey,” Verra half-turns, “He and I have chatted about this sort of thing. I love Jaskier, but I love all the things that make him Jaskier. That includes his preference for men. And he loves me, and doesn’t wish for me to stop working – although I can be more selective with my clients, which is rather nice.”

Foolishly, you think of all the times you’ve just turned a blind eye to the people they’ve invited up to their inn rooms. You’d thought it was business, but perhaps...

“Forgive me,” You rush out, “I was only thinking of you. I confess, I’m very... ill-educated towards the lifestyle you and Jaskier have chosen.”

“Oh, darling,” Verra soothes, and kneels, her hands on your knees, “Thank you, for looking out for me. And perhaps I should have warned you. But Jaskier and I, we love freely. That doesn’t mean we love one another less. He gets things from other partners that I cannot give him, and I get the same. And sometimes we share. But we’re always honest. There aren’t many rules, but that’s one of them. It works because we talk.”

You think about yourself and Geralt. You couldn’t have Verra’s lifestyle, because for you, Geralt is it. But could you let him roam, if he needed to? Would he _want_ to? _Witchers always stray,_ the horrible echo in your head, and you shudder. Verra is clearly perfectly content, and sensible with her decisions, but for you? You can’t bear the idea of Geralt wanting more from someone who isn’t you.

As if she can read your mind, she kisses one of your hands. “I know you and Geralt are different. It must be hard for you to understand. All you really need to know is that Jaskier and I are happy. Love comes in a lot of different ways, y’know?”

“Yeah.” You agree, and smile at her. “Thanks, Verra. For being honest. I’m really glad I don’t have to go castrate Jaskier, because I am quite fond of him, too.”

She laughs, and rises again. “He does grow on you.”

For a time, there’s relative silence as she cooks, and you flick through your book. But your mind is still reeling. “What if...” You pipe up, “What if Geralt is like Jaskier? But I’m not like you? What if I’m not enough?” Your fear sounds pathetic, voiced.

Verra hums, and shakes her head. “Geralt is not like Jaskier.” She decides, and she sounds so sure that it warms you. “That man doesn’t love with ease. Perhaps before you, he was casual with his physical affection, but now? I think he’d move the stars in the sky before he’d hurt you on purpose.”

The sentiment makes you teary. “Gods, Verra, Jaskier really is rubbing off on you. Such a poet.”

“He rubs off on me all the time,” She deadpans, “Like a dog in heat—”

“Okay, enough of this line of conversation.” You flick a slice of carrot peel at her, and she grins, hucking a small piece of potato in your direction. Before you can break out into a very juvenile food fight, the door opens, and Jaskier returns.

“Hello, wifey!” He greets Verra, who squeals and leaps into his arms. He catches her, and you feel a pang, because they are so adorably disgusting and it makes you miss Geralt all the more. “Smells good. Hello—”

“So tell me about the atrium, hm?” Verra interrupts his greeting, “You’ve moved things to public places? I knew you were a _pervert_ , Jask’, but tsk. My reputation!” She pretends to swoon.

Jaskier’s gone all pink, looking between you and his wife, who he sets back down on the ground. “Um. How did...?”

“I saw you, coming back from the library. And told on you. Verra has explained things, don’t worry. The Pankratz jewels are safe, for now.” Casually, you twirl one of the paring knives on the table.

“Well, that’s good news.” He’s still flushed, but a little more relaxed, especially given your accepting tone. “And, er, Verra my love... if you don’t approve, I’ll take it back indoors.”

“Oh, I approve.” Verra purrs, “Especially because you’re dumb enough to get caught, and then I’ll get to put on a huge performance about being betrayed and how you’re a cad and a liar and I’ll _only_ accept your apologies if they come in the form of silks and diamonds and—”

“Noted, noted,” Jaskier groans, “I’ll be more covert.”

“Up to you.” Verra smooches his cheek, and returns to dinner. “I do put on a good performance, though.”

“I know.” Both you and Jaskier agree at the same time, and trade a smile.

\---------------

Geralt has resorted to doing what Triss predicted he would: taking any contract going for an opportunity to put his feelings into something physical, to shove his sword into monsters and watch them gurgle and die as if he can do the same to the turmoil inside his own mind.

He travels the coast at first, slashing through a nest of sirens that are causing a fishing village a spot of bother, and then he takes on a boring batch of drowners – although there’s no contract attached – and then he finds himself traveling further inland, towards the woods near White Bridge, because he’s picked up a contract for a few young wyverns that are apparently nesting in one of the craggy hills deep in the forest. It’s possibly a stupid task to take on solo, but he doesn’t care. He’s a Witcher. This is what he’s supposed to do. He’s a monster that kills monsters.

In White Bridge, he replenishes his supplies, and pretends not to take note of the date. Of the fact that there’s a week left until he can return to you in Oxenfurt. For some reason, the thought of it twists at him, and he finds himself pacing through the city angrily, Roach keeping step at his side. Without thinking, he finds the city’s brothel, and lingers at the steps leading up to the dimly lit establishment.

He pauses.

“Interested in some fun, Sir Witcher?” One of the girls on duty outside calls, pulling aside her gown to reveal a plump breast. He blinks, drawing in the scent of her, and his mind tumbles in circles. After a moment, he tethers Roach, and nods in acceptance.

At the Madam’s desk, he lays down coin, and the prostitute leads him through the place, giggling about something-or-other; he isn’t really listening. He can hear the sound of sex and smell the lust and it reminds him of you. He aches.

“We’ll bathe first,” The courtesan is saying, “And then—”

“Not necessary.” Geralt interrupts.

“I am afraid I must insist, Sir Witcher. You’re a bit, well, dirty.”

“I am.” He agrees, “But I don’t wish to fuck you.”

She almost looks disappointed, but then she shrugs. “What, then? Massage?”

He shakes his head. “How long has it been since you gave birth?”

She blanches at that, and frowns. “H-how did you...?”

“I can smell the breast milk.” He says, “Sensitive nose.”

“Oh.” She clears her throat, “I see. Witcher thing, yes? Um, well, I had my little girl about five months ago, now.”

His eyes soften, and he looks at one of the empty rooms, at the tables there. “Would you... would you mind having a drink with me, and answering some questions?”

It’s a terribly peculiar request, but she doesn’t have to get naked, and she raises her shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, I guess. It’s your coin, Witcher.”

\---------------

When he leaves the brothel, the woman waves him goodbye – he’s forgotten her name, because his head is swimming with new information. Some of it he already knew from reading, some of it from Verra, but much of it came from a new mother with recent experience. He feels it’s coin well-spent. He’s still knotted up inside, not knowing how you are or how you might feel about him, but at least now he has a little more to offer.

_One week_ , he thinks. That’s enough time to get rid of the wyverns, and head back to Oxenfurt. It’s creeping towards dusk, but he’s not tired. He mounts Roach and directs her out of the town, onto the road leading to the forest.

His mind never stops reeling. It only does when he’s focused in combat. He thinks about what you said before you parted – how you love him as he is, how you have forgiven him for Yennefer, how you don’t wish he’d change from what he is. It’s still hard for him to cope with, because there has never been a time in his life that he’s felt love, or felt loved. And _he_ wishes he wasn’t a Witcher. He wishes it often.

He dwells on Yennefer, too. About how he should have known better. How he should have listened to Jaskier. Maybe he should have scented her intentions. But he failed – _didn’t he?_ He remembers Jaskier’s forgiveness, and even Verra’s. The only one that won’t let go... is him.

How can he, though? What if he makes another mistake like that, and loses you? That ache is still there – the one he asked you about in Triss’ house. The one that you told him was love. If anything, it’s grown stronger. There is no hex, no way for him to feel you, but he still sometimes rubs at his lower back and tries to locate you through the magical ether. He doesn’t miss the leash, but he...

He misses you. Fuck, he misses you so much.

He’s deep in the forest, walking Roach because there is no more path. The moon is sliding towards the horizon, and the inkiness of night is yielding to dawn. With a sudden clarity, he stops in his tracks.

Maybe he’ll be a day or two early, but he has to return to Oxenfurt. He has to see you. To tell you. Nothing has changed, and he’ll fight for you with every breath in his body, with every drop of blood that surges in his mutant veins. He loves you; it’s the deepest truth he now knows. He loves you enough to understand that Yennefer, and the hex, and the vortex of chaos surrounding both of you – all of it is just detail. You’ll work it out.

_It wasn’t his fault._

The relief of it almost makes him weak at the knees. He can’t utter the words out loud – they are still too close, too new – but he lets them trickle through his mind as he closes his eyes. Everything that happened – it’s fucked up, it’s unfair, but it’s not his fault. He chose to save Yennefer because that is who he is. And you _love_ who he is. You wouldn’t change who he is. You told him these things. He’s seen these things shining in your eyes, honest and whole.

He’s wasting time self-flagellating in a forest when he could be holding you and feeling your baby kick in your belly.

As he turns, he’s startled by the sight of a man. A fucking bandit. He was so deep in his reverie that the shabby-looking fellow got the drop on him. No matter; he slowly reaches for his iron sword.

“If you back away, friend, I won’t hurt you.” Geralt threatens. No need to spill blood when he can talk it out.

“Ah,” The man grins, all rotten and missing teeth, “That’s kind of you. I’ll do as you say. But I don’t know about _them_.”

“What—” Geralt whips his head, just as a club collides with his temple. He stumbles in place, dizzy, and then slumps heavily to the ground as the world goes black.

\---------------

On the day that marks three weeks, you wake up far too early. Verra helps you bathe, and braid your hair – and then unbraid it – and then she gives up and tells you that you’re being ridiculous and Geralt will be delighted to see you even if you’re bald. You nervously choose a pale blue gown, because Jaskier thinks it has the prettiest embroidery, and then you pick through breakfast. By mid-morning, you’re dressed in a cloak to ward off the last of winter’s bite, and you wait outside on a bench in the sunshine.

The day drags on. The sun climbs high in the sky, and then begins to sink, drawing the shadows long on the ground. Still you wait, anxiously glancing up every time you hear hoofbeats.

By the time Verra finds you, it’s late, and you’re shivering. She pulls a fur around you. “He didn’t come.” You whisper, and she pulls you close.

“Maybe he got the date wrong?” She offers, but there’s a hesitance in her voice. Something in you hardens.

“No. He would never.” You look up, and meet her gaze. “Something is wrong.”

“Honey, wait—” Verra calls, but you’re up and headed towards the stables, pulling the fur tighter, single-minded. “You can’t ride right now!”

“He’s in trouble, I know it, and I am going to find him.” Your tone leaves no room for debate. She recognises this immediately.

“Okay, how about we be smart about this, though? You can’t ride without risk to the baby. You’ve packed no supplies.” The first part makes you hesitate. “We’ll go looking for him, but we’re going to need to borrow a cart for Bolt and Fleabag to pull.”

You groan. “That will take forever!”

She takes up your hands. “But it’s safer. I’d say we should head back to Triss, but as I understand it, you’ve used up your chances to track one another. And that poor woman has probably had enough of all of this.”

Damn it, when she’s right, Verra is right. You let a breath out between pinched teeth, and slowly nod. “ _Fine_. But we leave at first light, and we ride as fast as Fleabag can take it.” You know Bolt isn’t going to enjoy his company, but you pray they’ll get along. Just until you find Geralt.

Because you _will_ find Geralt.

“We’d best tell Jaskier.” Verra is guiding you back inside, and you follow, already going over details in your mind. Where would he have gone? What should you pack? Gods, is he...

_He’s fine,_ you tell yourself angrily. He’s fine because he has to be. If he wasn’t, you’d know. You just... _would_.

Once within your rooms, you take to packing and picking out a map as Verra explains the situation to Jaskier. You’re methodical and silent and both of them know better than to talk to you about anything except the immediate coming days. That night, sleep evades you yet again, but it’s not discomfort that keeps you awake.

“Geralt,” You whisper, “Hold on.”


	17. Part Seventeen - Tracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You set out to reunite with Geralt, because you know he's okay. He has to be. Your due date looms.

Verra is right, of course. You wonder why you ever challenge her. The cart is bumpy and makes you feel like stock being transported for sale, but it’s more comfortable than riding. Jaskier and Verra take turns driving the horses, one of them always tucked up beside you for warmth, and when you are able you catch small snatches of sleep.

Bolt is smart enough to understand that there is some urgency, and Fleabag isn’t quite smart enough to challenge his authority. They get on well enough, which you are endlessly thankful for. You stop more than you’d like to – partly to see to their needs, and partly because you constantly need to relieve your bladder.

Sometimes Verra goes over the birth plan with you, and you half-listen, because you’re _terrified_. You cannot remember when you last saw your feet. As you travel, time seems to slither away from you like water through your fingertips, and you’re acutely aware that you’re now carrying in your last month. Some women give birth early, you know. Verra says the important thing is to stay calm, to stay focused.

It’s easy for her to say, considering her husband is not two feet away, quietly singing what sounds like an old sea-shanty to himself.

The closest major settlement to Oxenfurt is White Bridge. On the way, you still stop and enquire after Geralt, but those that have seen him haven’t laid eyes upon him recently. He came this way, but he has not returned.

Jaskier and Verra each venture the idea that he may have left for good exactly once before they are snapped at. He hadn’t abandoned you. You know it, somehow; maybe you’re not tied to him as you once were, but you can feel it as a truth somewhere deep in the marrow of your bones. He needs you. You _will_ find him.

There’s no alternative.

\-----------

Once you reach White Bridge, you all stop to give the horses a break, and to begin your enquiries. You know your companions are tired and hungry, and so you offer them the option of taking breakfast and hiring a room whilst you ask around.

“We’ll split up and meet here in an hour.” Verra says instead, squeezing your arm.

“I’ll ask around the residences.” Jaskier offers.

Tears prick your eyes. You’re so grateful for them. They know it, because Verra gives you a look that reads something along the lines of _don’t you start with the thank-yous again,_ and you nod fiercely instead.

You take the taverns and the inns. No luck at the watering holes, but the first inn you come across gives you a solid lead. It’s bittersweet, however.

“Oh aye, a Witcher was here alright. White wolf himself. Took a nasty contract, word is. Hasn’t come back for his pack, but I haven’t touched it. Gods themselves only know what manner of cursed things lurk in it.” The keeper says, leaning on the counter.

“What sort of a contract?” You try to keep your voice steady.

“Wyverns. Nasty little beasts. There’s three, and they’re young. Made a nest in the forest mountains, they have. Maybe the coin was too good.”

You place some money on the counter for his assistance, force a tight smile, and exit the building. Geralt can handle himself with young wyverns, you think. Three is a rough battle, but you’ve seen him conquer worse. Something feels off, and you cast a glance towards the forest. Impatiently, you wait for Verra and Jaskier to return.

Jaskier is first. “He’s been here.” He says, eyes bright, “Spotted by many of the residents. Said he took a contract from the board.”

You nod. “An innkeeper told me the same. Wyverns. His pack is still there in the room he rented.”

The bard frowns, and places a comforting hand on your shoulder.

Verra isn’t long behind her husband, and she’s just in time for the hearty serving of late breakfast. “Okay, I have some information, but you must listen to me and breathe.” She takes your hands.

Immediately, you tense up. “Tell me.”

“He was at the brothel—”

“He _what?_ ” You hiss, and Verra squeezes, clicking her tongue.

“Shh, let me finish. He saw one of the girls, but she said that all he did was ask her about her baby. Said that he scented the milk on her. He wanted to know all kinds of things about birth and feeding. They talked for an hour, he paid her, and left. Didn’t so much as kiss her.” Verra smiles. “It’s a good sign, darling. He wanted to learn from a recent mother.”

“You believed her?” You eye your best friend. She’s one of the best judges of character that you know.

“Without a shadow of doubt. She had the smug satisfaction about her that all whores have when you get an easy client. After Geralt left, she said he mounted a chestnut horse, and headed into the forest.” Verra begins to eat.

“He did go after the wyverns, then.” You bite your lip. The food isn’t appealing, but you sip a mug of milk.

“Took a contract?” Verra asks. You and Jaskier nod.

“What do we do?” Jaskier winces, “I have some technique, as does Verra, but we’re no match for monsters.”

“There’s no way he’d have left them alive.” You say, picking apart a piece of bread, “Not whilst he could fight. The wyverns, I’m less worried about. There’s every chance he’s holed up in a cave, recovering.” _He’s not dead_ , you repeat in a mantra. You’d know. Somehow, you’d know.

Everyone is silent for a moment. Verra is the first to hedge the question. “What now?”

“I’m going after him.” You say, “I will ride Bolt. The cart won’t travel well in the forest.”

Jaskier and Verra exchange worried glances. “We’ll come, too.” The bard says. They both know that trying to convince you to wait for Geralt to return would be a hopeless endeavour.

“You don’t have to.” You look at both of them steadily, “I will understand if you don’t.”

“If you’re going, I’m going. If I’m going, Jaskier is going.” Verra states, and Jaskier nods, “That’s all there is to it.”

“Right.” You rise from the table. “I want to get moving now, whilst there’s light. If we’re lucky, I’ll be able to track him. Not all the snow has melted.”

Riding Bolt is uncomfortable, as Verra predicted, but you make do. Galloping is out of the question, but as you file out of White Bridge towards the forest, you set the fastest pace that does not jostle your belly too much. Your pulse flutters in the back of your throat.

\-------------

It’s been over a week, and Geralt is furious that he’s been unable to get the drop on any of the bandits. They keep a cuff around his arm that suppresses the small amount of magic he has control over, and his signs are useless. He’s bound, weakened by hunger. Worst of all, the idiots think that they can get a ransom for him.

He’s tried explaining that even if anyone did want to pay for his release – which is incredibly unlikely – any Witcher of his school that they send word to would probably not be pleased about the situation. They’re greedy and giddy with their prize, though, and don’t listen to him. They’ve heard of another of the wolf school in the area – judging by their description, it was Eskel – and they send two of their party to leave messages for him in close towns.

Eskel might only just be leaving Kaer Morhen, Geralt knows, and that’s a good month’s ride away. His brother does patrol this area, but usually only in the summer months. But telling them that does him no good, either.

Frustration makes his focus fray thin, and he tries to bide his time by meditating. It’s hard to get into a deep, healing state when all he can think about is you. He’s missed the deadline to meet up with you and he can only presume you’ve thought the worst. That he’s left you to Yennefer’s clutches, alone.

One of the bandits will make a mistake, he thinks. Sooner or later, he’ll have an opportunity. He watches and waits and tries not to sink into despair, but it’s not easy. As the days pass, and the idle beatings increase, he begins to lose hope.

\------------

A snapped twig here, a frozen-over hoof-print there. You know he’s taken Roach this way. By now, deep into the forest, you’re on foot, leading Bolt. The sun is edging towards late afternoon, but you relentlessly track. Verra and Jaskier are quiet behind you for once, aware that you need to concentrate.

You stop dead at a clear scuffle on the ground. Multiple shoe-prints. The prance of Roach’s hooves. A dried-black spatter of blood. Your heart skips a beat.

“Bandits.” You whisper. Your suspicion is only confirmed by a stray arrow left behind; the craftsmanship is poor, advertising that the ammunition was not purchased, but self-made. Your fingers curl tightly around the wood.

“What would bandits want with Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

“I’ve no idea.” You murmur, watching the trail head off east. He was dragged, you can see that. “They took him alive, I think. Not enough blood to suggest more than a temporary concussion.”

“Maybe they needed his services?” Verra wonders.

Your upper lip curls. “Possible. People don’t realise that they can just fucking _ask_.”

Tugging Bolt’s bridle, you follow the track. You count the prints where you can; you estimate eight individuals, which doesn’t make you feel easy. A heavily pregnant woman, a bard and a courtesan don’t make for the best rescue team.

“They have numbers.” You keep your voice low, “But they are not smart. Not judging by the evidence they left, and the quality of their arrows. Keep your weapons near, but do not draw them. Follow my lead.”

“Okay.” Verra whispers, wide-eyed. Jaskier nods.

“Let us pray it does not come to a fight.” You murmur. What you leave unsaid is, let us pray Geralt is whole and unharmed. Because if he is not, you’ll be the first to shed blood.

\--------------

“Travellers!” One of the bandit sentinels yells, and there’s a flurry of activity. Geralt raises his head in interest. “Two women and... a bard?”

Geralt’s chest squeezes painfully. With renewed vigor, he works on his bindings. They are as tight as ever.

“Who goes there?” Their leader puffs up like a spring rooster, sword withdrawn.

“Peace!” Geralt hears your voice, and almost whimpers. “We represent the Continent’s Guild of Witchers. We understand that you have one, and wish to bargain for his freedom.”

“Never heard of no Continent’s Guild of Witchers.” The bandit sounds uncertain, and Geralt wants to snort. There isn’t one.

“I’m not surprised, good sir.” Your words are steady. “We try to operate in secret, and emerge only when needed. Witchers are a rare and valuable resource, as you have correctly discovered.”

Appealing to his intellect, Geralt notes. He’s equal parts proud and terrified. Any further struggling with the rope that binds him is stopped when a blade his held to his throat. He curls his upper lip in disdain.

“We did discover.” The leader boasts, “Not so valuable if he can be overpowered by mere men, though, is he?”

“We shall have to see that he is trained better, good sir. You’ve done us a service, truly.” Only Geralt can hear the sharpness in your words; how you wish to sink your sword into his sternum.

“So you saw our notice, then? Five thousand orens.”

_They really are imbeciles_ , Geralt thinks. Nobody would pay that sum for a Witcher. But he seems to have bought the ‘guild of Witchers’ line, which bodes well.

“A fair sum. I am not here to barter, sir. I would like to see that the Witcher is in good enough health before the exchange is made, please.” 

The leader grunts. “Show us the coin.”

You make an exasperated sigh. “Take these as an upfront show of good faith, sir.” The sound of a purse being tossed and caught. “Now show me the Witcher.”

“Right.” The bandit says, “Only you, though. Your friends stay out here.”

“Agreed,” Your voice breezes, “Vee – summon a portal if you feel anything is awry.”

Passing Verra off as a mage? Geralt can feel the dynamic shift slightly, the bandits suddenly more cautious. It’s a gamble.

“Yes, my lady.” Verra chirps. And then he sees your boots, the hem of your dress, and you as you descend the small incline into the cave. He tries to keep his face impassive, to play along with your charade, but his eyes are burning with emotion.

You struggle to keep yourself in check, too. He’s been beaten, and you can see the weakness of his body from the binds they’ve kept him in, and probably from lack of nutrition. Your fingers itch for your sword, but you keep walking, forcing your expression nonchalant.

“See? He’s in one piece.” The leader points, “Now pay up.”

“You’ve been a man of your word, sir, and I appreciate it.” You offer your most charming grin, and the bandit soaks up the praise. “I will inspect the Witcher’s fingers for damage, and then we will give you your coin.”

“As you like.” The man shrugs.

You stroll over, making a show of humming behind Geralt’s back, looking at his hands. You pull at his fingers. With the fastest of movements, you transfer a tiny blade into his palm from your sleeve. He instantly conceals it.

“Perfect.” You conclude, straightening your back. “Right, then. Shall we finish business outside? The coin you seek is with my mage.”

Greedy with the prospect of riches, the leader nods. His men are all congratulating themselves, patting one another on the back, heading to the mouth of the cave to oversee the fruits of their labour. Geralt begins to saw through the rope.

“Orens are your preferred currency, yes?” You stall for time.

“Five thousand.” The leader reminds you.

“Ah, but you must subtract the purse I gave you earlier.”

“I thought that was good faith.” The fucker presses his luck.

“I did say that, I suppose.” Your smile is saccharine. Inside the cave, you hear the faintest thud as one of the men falls.

“Okay, so—”

He has no time to finish his insipid dealing, because he’s blown backwards with an aard sign so direct and violent that he hits a boulder and smashes his skull in a sick smear against the limestone. The other bandits stare, and then move into panicked action. But they are far too slow for the ire of a Witcher – even a weakened one.

He despatches the remaining four with lethal efficiency, using a blade he must have lifted from the bandit inside the cave. Verra averts her gaze into Jaskier’s shoulder, but you are fascinated by his dance of death as ever. His swordsmanship is smooth, and he wastes no time with theatrics. One by one, the bandits fall. When there are none, he hefts the sword down, and spits.

Then he turns his gaze to you. The weariness seems to hit him, and he staggers slightly. “My love. I am so sorr—”

He can’t finish his apology, because you’re leaping at him, wrapping yourself around him as close as your stomach will allow, choking on a tiny sob. He accepts you wholly, and the emotion of it all takes you both to the ground. You grip his grimy shirt and tremble.

“I _knew_ you were alive,” You whimper, “I knew it.”

“I’m fine,” His voice is ragged and dry, “I’m here. _Fuck_ , darling, I can’t believe you’re here. I was coming back to you when—”

“Shh,” Verra interjects, “Stories later. Both of you badly need food and rest. Let’s, erm, shift these... corpses, and make use of the fire in the cave. At least for tonight.”

She’s right – because she’s always right – and you sniffle, nodding. “Yes. Water and food. Come.”

He follows you inside on weak legs, and you sit him by the warmth. As you tend to him, he does not take his eyes off of you. Vaguely, you hear Jaskier protesting as he pulls bodies a small distance from the mouth of the cave, and Verra’s squeals of disgust.

“I love you.” Geralt says, “I missed you. So much.”

You palm his face. His stubble is more of a beard now, but that’s not terribly important. “I never want to be away from your side again. I know I had to be sure, but... how I regret the experiment, now. Geralt, I’m _sorry_.”

He nuzzles your hand. “Forgive me for getting us into this foolish situation, and I’ll forgive the experiment.”

Nodding, you press your forehead against his. “Of course, my love. All will be well again, soon.”

Because both of you want to believe the statement, for that moment in time, you do.


	18. Part Eighteen - Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just your luck that you go into labour in a bandit's cave. And unfortunately, things get worse from there. Warning for baby/labour related stuff, although I try to keep it fairly tame!

Cuddling Geralt by the fire, with him slotted comfortably behind you, one large hand splayed on your belly, you wonder how you managed the weeks apart without him. Triss had been right – you needed the time, or you'd always be questioning things – but the price had been dear. Geralt assured you again and again that he was okay, but you weren't happy until he'd had the worst of the dirt cleaned from him with warmed water and a rag, and a stomach full of food and ale.

Roach was the smartest horse you'd ever met. Even though Bolt was a wonderful steed, Geralt's horse somehow knew when to wander away from danger, and when to return. You'd needlessly worried about her until she'd sauntered into camp, all of Geralt's gear untouched in her saddlebags. She'd nosed her owner fondly, before proceeding to establish dominance over Bolt and Fleabag in order to get the most oats.

The biggest benefit to her return, in your opinion, was the change of clothes she brought. Although you love Geralt more than you thought you could ever love another person in your life, the idea of bedding down beside him in the clothes he'd been stuck in for weeks made your stomach turn. Now, as fresh as he can be in the wilderness, you delight in the strength returning to his eyes. He's devouring your features with the same affection. You reach up and palm his bearded jaw.

“Fluffy.” You whisper, so as not to wake Jaskier and Verra, who are snoozing on the other side of the fire. “Makes you look rugged.”

“Hmm.” He leans into the touch. “Didn't think much of shaving, whilst we were apart.”

“What did you think of?”

“You.” He admits, honest. “Only you. And... killing monsters.”

You grin at him. “I suppose that doesn't leave much time for grooming, then.”

Geralt strokes your hair, nosing into the crook of your neck like he's done a dozen times since you've been reunited, breathing you in. You know it comforts him, and you like it. You feel the heat of his mouth, the gentle love he leaves in kisses.

“I thought of you, too.” You say, “All the time. So much that I believe we owe Verra and Jaskier... _fuck,_ darling. We owe them a lot.”

Geralt hums in agreement. “I'll ask Jaskier to sing that song for me, tomorrow. He might cry with joy.”

“The one you pretend to hate?” You giggle, “Yes, I think he'd rather like that. Did you enjoy their ever-so dramatic wedding tale?”

He smirks. “How is it that Jaskier, meddlesome that he is, gets his girl and his happiness without complication?” There's no jealousy to his tone; he sounds happy for his friend.

“Oh, believe me, he _married_ the complication.” You say, casting a glance over at Verra. She's draped warmly across Jaskier's chest, who is snoring. How dearly you love that girl.

“I think they'll keep one another busy.” Geralt agrees. He runs his large hand down your belly. “How are you feeling?”

“Waddly, sore, but fine. Certainly can't complain, considering what you've endured.”

“You can.” He shuffles closer. “I'll listen.”

“I don't want to complain.” You murmur, “Not right now. I have you again, and my heart is whole.”

Geralt kisses the corner of your mouth. You turn your head to capture his lips properly. The kiss you share is slow, gentle; it's a reminder that you're together in that moment. That you have everything you need.

“I love you.” He confesses, when you part.

“I love you, too.” You watch the play of firelight in his glittering irises.

For a time, you bask in the warmth of one another. Outside, the forest is quiet. The horses are stood together, blanketed for the night. Every now and then you hear one of the boys try something with Roach, and her offended response. The familiarity of it makes you settle. Sleep is tugging at you, but you're resisting. Geralt can feel it.

“I've got you, my heart.” He purrs, “Rest.”

“In Oxenfurt,” You whisper, “I read everything I could. Like I said I would. I couldn't find anything about reversing a wish, or even rumours of another djinn. I don't know what--”

“Shh.” Geralt soothes, “I will face Yennefer.”

That makes you tense, and you frown at him. “She's strong, Geralt. Triss said she's very powerful. I don't think she'd hesitate to do what she saw as necessary.”

“Nor will I.” His jaw is set firmly. “Witchers are resistant to magic. I will try and bargain with her, first. But if she won't hear reason, I'll draw my blade.”

Tears prick your eyes. “If I am protected by the djinn, why wouldn't she be?”

He frowns, considering that. Softly, he tucks your hair behind an ear. “I _will_ fight for our family.”

You don't want to think about the implications of such a fight. Squeezing your eyes shut, you turn back into a comfortable sleeping position, and try to let his presence lull you into rest. Eventually, fatigue wins out, and you drift.

\---------------

You awaken to the smell of breakfast, and the hum of Verra's song. Blinking blearily, you glance at the mouth of the cave, wondering what kind of time it is. Geralt is still at your back, although he stirs when you do. You're pleased that he managed to get some sleep.

“Morning, darlings!” Verra chirps, and you marvel at how she manages to be so chipper. Jaskier looks as though he's contemplating the same thing, sipping a mug of tea. She trots over to you, and hands you two mugs of the brew. “The bandits had a delightfully stocked cellar. We're taking their vodka with us. Ooh, and their medical things.”

“Your kit is already bursting with supplies.” Your voice is raspy, and you hand Geralt his drink.

“You're one to talk about bursting,” Verra points out, “The more prepared we are, the better.”

“I learned some things, in the time we were parted.” Geralt speaks, “I might be able to assist you, Verra. If you have need for me.”

“Oh yes, we know _all_ about your visit to the whorehouse.” Verra quips, and you feel Geralt blanch behind you. Then she giggles. “We also know that you just spoke to a woman there, _relax._ Do you think I'd have let you keep your balls if I thought you'd dipped your wick?”

“It's true,” Geralt rushes out, looking at you, “My love, I just talked--”

“I know.” You assure him, smiling, “I believe you. I trust you.”

The simple words have him visibly relaxing, before he glares at Verra. “You're lucky you're useful, woman.”

“ _You're_ lucky you--”

“Oof.” You wince, sitting up. Both of them stop their playful bickering, all focus on you. Your hands rub your lower back.

“You alright?” Verra asks, squatting beside you. Geralt begins to stroke your back.

“Yeah,” You frown, “Just a kind of ache...” But then you feel a trickle of wetness in your smallclothes. As you lean forward more, it surges into a gush of fluid. “Oh fuck me, I think I just wet myself.”

Verra pales. Geralt is up in a flash.

“Medical kit?” He growls, and Verra points. The Witcher runs to retrieve it.

“What-- oh, no. No, _no_. It was just pee, not the water breaking... thing.” Your voice has a tinge of hysteria, as you hike up your skirts.

Verra shakes her head. “That's your waters, darling.” She tells you, trying to keep her voice soothing. “It's common in first stage labour.”

“I can't be in labour!” You grip her collar. “I'm in a bandit cave!”

“We could be in worse places. And town is not far.” Verra nods as Geralt sets the kit down. “Go fetch water to boil.” She instructs him, and he moves so fast that you start to realise that this is actually happening.

“We can go back to town, then.” You whimper, “Find a nice clean-- _ow!_ ”

Pain flutters through your abdomen, clenching. You grit your teeth and hold your breath. Verra shakes her head, gesturing.

“Look at me, darling. Breathe with me. Big breaths, in, out. It'll pass.”

You try and do as she says, shaky. Geralt returns with water, shoving breakfast out of the way of the flames, pouring the frigid liquid into a cauldron. Jaskier hovers, wringing his hands uncertainly.

“What should I do?” The bard's voice is nervous. “I could, I can...”

“Get your lute, Jaskier,” Verra commands. “Play something gentle, my love. _Don't_ sing.”

If you weren't in one of the most critical situations of your life, you'd admire her bossiness. Verra could rule the continent if she wanted to. As it is, however, you're just riding out the end of your first contraction.

“That wasn't so awful.” You say, “Is it all like that?”

“No, sweets.” Verra's eyes are soft. “We've talked about this, remember?”

“I know.” You grouch, “I just hoped things had changed.”

She looks amused. Then she works with Geralt, trying to make a comfortable place for you to lay down. Before long, there's furs on the ground, as well as a clean sheet that houses a variety of medical tools that you don't want to look at for very long.

“What's the knife for?” You hate that your voice is wobbly.

“You should know better than anyone that it's good to have a knife handy.” Verra jokes.

“I'm scared.” You whisper, seeking Geralt's eyes. They are as wide and frightened as your own. He goes to your side in an instant, guiding you onto the bed, holding your hand. Verra removes your ruined underthings, and uses the privacy of your skirt to clean you up a little. Not that you mind immodesty right now.

“Me too.” Geralt confesses, “But I am here, love. I'm here.”

A sound outside catches all of your attention. You're familiar with it – all of you. Jaskier stops playing. Geralt gets to his feet. Verra shuffles closer to you protectively. There's a glow of violet light.

A portal.

“I'm here, too!” Yennefer announces, strolling into the cave. “What a joyous day.”

“No closer, witch.” Geralt snarls.

Amazingly, she stops. “Fine, dog. But only because I do not wish to distress our lovely vessel.”

You pinch your teeth together and hiss at the woman. “I don't want you here at all.”

“A pity we don't always get what we want, in this world.” Yennefer examines the cuff of her fur coat absently.

“Yennefer,” Geralt's voice is low, “We know you wished for this child. But please. You can't... take it from us. We've been through so much. We just want our family, and peace.”

“I do _regret_ the hurdles you've had to overcome.” For a moment, the sorceress' face is almost kind. “If I'd had it my way, she would have carried in comfort. But it was not to be.”

“Then do her a kindness _now,_ ” Geralt implores, “And let her keep her child.”

Yennefer's eyes grow sharp. “You are not the only one who has sacrificed in this world, Witcher. Who has had things taken. I am owed this child. If not you, then someone else. It just so happened this way.”

Geralt bristles, and squares his shoulders. “You know that I will not just let you take our baby.”

“Oh, I fully expect you to kick up a fuss. But I also expect that it will be futile. You saw the magic of the djinn yourself, did you not? Until that child is in my arms, you cannot hurt me in a meaningful way. But you _know_ that, don't you?”

“Hnn _gh!_ ” You squeak, as another contraction bands across your belly. Verra grabs your hands, trying to get you to focus on her, to breathe. You can see the fear on her face; it must mirror your own.

Geralt is torn between turning to you, and facing off with Yennefer. She cocks an eyebrow. For a moment, the only sound is your panting.

And then suddenly, an _unearthly_ shrieking.

“The wyverns.” Geralt hisses. “The bandit corpses. Did you burn--”

“There was hardly a moment to think!” Jaskier's voice is urgent.

Geralt trades a glance with Yennefer. “We _protect_ her, right now. That is the priority.”

The sorceress looks grim. “Agreed.” She looks down at you, her fists clenched, and then back up at Geralt. “What do you need?”

The Witcher is buckling his armour on with haste. Again, the howling comes outside; it's joined by a second voice, and a third. The sound makes you cower instinctively.

“They're resistant to much magic, particularly stuns. But if we can ground them – can you snare them, keep them there?” Geralt rummages through a bag, and withdraws a potion. He downs it hastily, pockets a second.

“Yes.” Yennefer promises. You can see the trepidation in her violet eyes. She's not used to fighting monsters.

“I need your word, witch. I will not raise my blade against you, and you will not raise your hand against me. We have to protect the cave.” Geralt's voice is a dire growl.

She straightens her spine. “We fight for a common goal, Witcher.”

“Your _promise._ ”

“I give it to you.” Yennefer says.

“Geralt,” You whimper, as he kneels by you, “Gods, be... be careful.”

He presses his forehead against your own. “I will keep you safe, my love.” There's a sadness in his eyes that you can't parse. “I love you.”

“Come back to me.” You beg, “Please.”

He nods, and then runs a hand across your belly. “Always.” Then he trades a glance with Verra. Nothing needs to be said; they simply nod at one another.

Then he's running up the incline of the cave, Yennefer following him.

You turn to your side and retch, shivering all over. Jaskier and Verra flank you, wiping your mouth, stroking your hair. But all you can feel is fear and pain.

\---------------

Outside, the three beasts are squabbling over the corpses a small distance away. They have yet to take note of the horses or the human activity, but Geralt knows that it's only a time before they scent fresh blood. He unsheathes his silver blade, and glances side-long at Yennefer.

“They spit venom.” He murmurs, “I need not tell you to steer clear of their mouth, but watch their claws. And tails. They will take to the air to defend themselves. We must ground them to kill them.”

“How--” Yennefer begins, but Geralt is already sneaking towards the trio. She follows as quietly as possible. Geralt senses the projection of magic in front of them; a shield.

Were she not actively ruining his life, Yennefer might make a good battle companion.

In the daylight, with the two of them, it's nearly impossible to get advantage over the beasts. As soon as they are close, one sounds the alarm with a deafening roar. Geralt lunges forward, slashing his sword, managing to divide the stinger from the end of the closest tail. The wounded creature screams, dark blood spraying as it takes to the sky. Its siblings follow.

With the cover of trees, it's hard to predict where they might strike. It's not wise to take the fight into the open – not with three of them – but Geralt tries to lure them closer by hovering on the edge of the pine canopy, near the hills. One of them takes the bait.

It bears down, claws first, and Geralt begins to sign aard, before a strong gust of wind knocks the wyvern off the deadly course. He doesn't need to look behind him to know that Yennefer is casting. With its trajectory interrupted, the beast is vulnerable and close enough for Geralt to thrust his sword upward, scoring a dire wound across its throat. With a cry of pain, it skids onto the ground, lashing with its deadly tail. Geralt dodges, although he needn't; the tail hits the wall of a shield, and electricity crackles across the creature's scales. He uses the opportunity to roll forward and slice the head clean off.

With one down, one without a barb to fight with, and Yennefer's magic, Geralt feels a surge of confidence. He's weary from the bandit's imprisonment, but he's fought far worse in less health.

“How long until you are fatigued?” He calls to Yennefer, needing to gauge their energy and use it wisely.

“These are strong spells,” She returns, “But I can take the other two. Keep going.”

He nods, eyes darting across the sky as leathery wings beat, waiting.

\---------------

“I thought you said that contractions were _far apart_ at first!” You accuse Verra, curling your toes and trying not to scream as the pain bows your back.

“They usually are, darling,” Verra tries to keep her voice low, “Maybe the stress is causing fast labour. That's good though, right? Over faster.”

“Doesn't-- _fuuck_ \-- feel good!” You sob, taking a great gulp of air and collapsing back as the spasms subside. Already exhausted, you close your eyes in relief as she daubs a cool cloth across your forehead.

“I think they've felled one!” Jaskier reports from the mouth of the cave. He is sticking to shadows, and he can't see all of the fight, but there are glimpses.

The news is good. You nod, as Verra slicks up her hand with oil. You know she has to check things internally, but you still eye her with caution.

“Want me to make some stupid joke about buying you dinner?” Verra offers. Your glare intensifies. “Yeah, thought not. I need to feel how wide you are opening, okay? Legs up – that's it. Gently now.”

You don't love the feel of her poking around, but it's less painful than the contractions, and she's efficient. She withdraws, wiping her hand on a sheet like it's nothing. Then she uncorks the vodka, pouring some over her hands, and a few of the tools.

“What?” You whisper, “Good? Best vagina you've ever stuck your hand up?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, darling.” She smiles, and you marvel at her manner under the conditions. You feel as though you might shake apart. “You aren't ready to push.”

“ _Feels_ like it.” You groan.

“I know. But you need to save your energy, okay?” Verra holds up a bladderskin of water, and you sip. “You're doing so well.”

You want to make a sarcastic remark, but you feel the start of another bout of cramping, and you whimper instead. This time, it hurts enough for you to cry out. Verra tries to comfort you, but you've never felt such agony. It stripes white-hot through your belly, and your voice breaks.

“...to be quiet, you have to _try,_ ” You are aware of Verra's voice, “We can't draw attention. Shh _-shh_. You can do this.”

Panting, you realise she's right. You can. You have to.

\---------------

Geralt tries not to listen to the sounds coming from the cave. He can't afford to lose focus. The two remaining wyverns are acutely aware that they've lost a sibling, and their attacks are driven by rage. They've also worked out that striking as a pair is more effective, and forces Geralt to defend. Yennefer shields him on more than one occasion needlessly, and he is only able to get glancing blows in.

“Bastards.” He pants, watching them circle again. “They're not as young as the contract said they were.”

“Are they resistant to fire?” Yennefer asks, looking up.

“No.” Geralt murmurs, “But you'd need good aim.”

“Or a big fireball.” The sorceress holds out a hand, beginning to draw from the natural sources around her. An orb of bright orange appears, and starts to grow. Geralt holds his sword ready, defending her as she casts.

As one sails overhead, she launches the projectile with a shout. It hits the beast in the wing, punching a hole through it, and it drops from the sky with a wretched howl. It lands heavily, and Geralt attacks. He's stopped from dealing a blow when the other creature spits a bolt of venom, forcing him to dodge out of the way. It's enough time for the grounded wyvern to get to its feet – although Yennefer roots them in place with a spell.

Confused, the wounded thing struggles, and Geralt dances along the side of it, avoiding the gnash of its fatal teeth. His blade slices deeply into the meat of the creature, effectively disembowelling it. With a sick gurgle, it tries to flick its tail, but ultimately falls onto its side. Geralt has no time to deal a blow to its jugular and end its suffering quickly, as the last one swoops with gleaming talons. He dodges into the shelter of the trees, but not before his left arm is badly scored by a sharp claw.

He hardly feels the wound, but the scent of his own blood lets him know it's present. He flexes his arm, checks to see if any vital veins are severed, and pits his attention back against the final beast. This one is void of stinger, and it should withdraw to nurse its wound. But it keeps circling.

“This isn't right.” Geralt mutters.

“What isn't?” Yennefer looks tired, although she's trying not to let the weakness show.

“It knows the odds are against it. By all rights, it should have fled.” He frowns, watching the wyvern flying in an evasive pattern, possibly to deter any further fireballs. Not that the sorceress has another in her, Geralt suspects.

“Maybe it's angry?” Yennefer suggests.

Geralt shakes his head. “Wyverns aren't smart enough to hold grudges like humans do.”

He doesn't like it. Cautiously, he pats the potion in his pocket, knowing he has access to a boost of stamina if necessary. One stingerless wyvern should not be cause for him to down it, though.

Their questions are answered by a _thunderous_ screech, so loud that the branches in the forest shiver, and Yennefer is forced to cover her ears. A shadow appears overhead, and the sound of heavy wings beating against the air.

“Fuck.” Geralt spits.

“What--” Yennefer's voice trembles, “What is _that?_ ”

“Their mother.”

\---------------

Inside the cave, you're all rocked by the same sound, hands over your ears. You glance wild-eyed at Jaskier. He's gaping, scooching further into the cave.

“What?” You hiss, “What the _hells?_ ”

“Um, okay, so nobody panic. Good news is they got another of the little ones!” Jaskier's terror is apparent in his tone.

“The _little_ ones?” You and Verra repeat at the same time.

“Yeah, so... now there's also a big one.” Jaskier bites his lip.

“Of course there is.” You moan, as another wave of agony overtakes you. “Gods!” You pant, “Verra, there has-- to be _something-_ \- I can take--”

Verra squeezes your hand. “There's not, darling. You must be alert. Breathe, breathe, I've got you.”

“I _am_ breathing!” You hiss, clawing at the sweaty furs beneath you. This one seems to last an eternity before it releases you, and you weep in the aftermath. Verra is ready with the cool cloth and water.

“I can't,” You moan, “I have to push. Feels-- I _have_ to.”

“Soon.” Verra promises, holding a small lantern closer to your spread legs, “Soon, okay? Listen to my voice. Geralt is fine, it's going to be okay.”

“Please tell me the big wyvern has eaten Yennefer.”

Jaskier hums. “That'd be convenient. Unfortunately, she's still standing.”

That's not the answer you wanted. Outside, you hear your beloved Witcher's cries, and the sounds of battle. You've never much believed in the gods, but you squeeze your eyes shut and send a plea out into the universe.

\---------------

Geralt grunts as a spew of venom splashes near him, droplets hitting his boots and sizzling against the leather. He's tiring, and Yennefer's magic is dwindling. With haste, he removes the second potion and drinks it, feeling the surge of borrowed strength almost immediately.

The younger wyvern is bolstered by the appearance of the adult and becomes brazen. Geralt can no longer afford to play with the tree-line, not with the larger and more skilled threat looming, but he scores multiple blows against the talons of the smaller beast. When he severs one, it yelps in pain, and the mother bellows her distress.

“Can you do the fireball thing again?” Geralt asks, although he knows the answer. His medallion is barely vibrating.

“I don't have the energy.” Yennefer grits out.

Geralt curses, withdrawing a long, silver dagger, and tossing it at her feet. “Just... slash, if anything comes near you. I'll keep their focus on me.”

She's wide-eyed and Geralt can smell her fear, but she nods, and takes up the weapon. The smaller creature dives again, and the Witcher pivots on his feet. He takes another hit from the claws, this time against his shoulder, but it's a move of strategy; in the closer position, he aims his sword against the armoured flesh of the wyvern's thigh, and twists. Arterial blood spurts blackly across him as the thing screams, flying above the canopy again. It sounds as if it's raining; thick pats of liquid drip across the trees, slipping between pine needles.

“Focus the mother,” Geralt barks, “The smaller one will bleed out.”

It's a cruel way to go, but they've little choice. The mother knows that her last child is doomed, and the sound of her rage vibrates across the sky. Geralt grips the hilt of his sword tighter.

“Why doesn't she leave?” Yennefer pants, looking up at the looming matriarch.

“Because we just killed her children.” Geralt says.

“I thought you said they don't hold grudges?” The sorceress shrinks further into the trunk of a tree.

“They don't.” Geralt mutters, “But they get angry, just as any other creature. And there's nothing worse in this world than a mother watching her child get taken from her.”

“Lovely parallel, but it won't change anything.” Yennefer growls.

Geralt simply grunts, dodging another volley of venom. He casts igni, directing the small bolt of flame towards the creature, hitting it in the abdomen. It shudders with pain, but remains airborne; the scales on its hide protect it from much of the damage. He tries again, aiming for a wing, but the beast is smarter than its slain young, and the fire misses.

For a time, they fight like that; little jabs, an exchange of blows. She's trying to drive Geralt out where he'll be vulnerable, he knows. The giant beast won't come near the canopy. It's maddening; Geralt can feel the potion begin to wear off.

A sound filters through the air; your screaming, high-pitched and agonised. It catches the attention of Geralt, Yennefer, and the wyvern. He can sense the creature's choice before she even makes it.

As she turns on her wing, Geralt dives from the tree-line with a roar, unsheathing his iron blade and hurling it skyward. It drives into the joint of her left wing, thick into the torso of her, and she falters in flight. Howling, she hits the ground. Trying to keep her distracted, the Witcher casts aard, but it barely makes her flinch. Yennefer is ducking behind him along the tree-line, trying to get to the cave.

The wyvern sees the movement of the mage, sees Geralt looking at her, and senses easier retribution. It turns from the Witcher, and Yennefer stands stunned against the barrel of a pine tree, raising her hands. She's trying to cast a shield, but it's stuttering.

It feels like the world slows down, then. Geralt can smell the salt of your tears, and the blood of your body. He can see Yennefer's terror reflected in the eye of the wyvern. It surges closer, all fang and fury. He knows she has no chance; he knows that if he does not move, the claws will rend her body and take her life. She has no power left.

With a bestial cry, he rolls between the sorceress and the wyvern, his blade singing in the air. It cuts through skin and sinew with ease, and the beast's paws fall to the ground, useless. Before it can swing its head around to snap at either of them, Geralt twists his sword and drives it into the neck of the massive creature. Blood explodes in a thick fountain from the gash, and the matriarch gurgles wetly, before hitting the ground in defeat, her snout mere inches away from where Yennefer is shivering.

Geralt yanks his sword back, panting.

The sorceress and the Witcher stare at one another, silent.

“No.” Yennefer whispers.

Geralt's obsidian gaze is unwavering.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls, approaching from the nearby cave-mouth, “You could have-- _damn it!_ Your fucking _morals!_ ” Clearly, he saw the end of the fight.

“I could have, yes.” Geralt acknowledges, but he's not looking away from Yennefer.

She bares her teeth, livid. “Bastard. You absolute _bastard._ ”

“For once, I agree with the witch!” Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. Geralt ignores him.

“You know what I want, sorceress. The choice is yours. You repay your life debt by withdrawing any hold you have on _my child_ and leave us in peace, or you repay it indentured to me for the rest of your days. And believe me when I say that you will have no _time_ to enjoy the stolen baby. I will not be a kind master.” Geralt tilts his head.

Jaskier makes a tiny noise of astonishment. Yennefer is shaking. She raises a hand, and Geralt lifts his chin in challenge. And then she slumps back against the tree, gasping, drained.

“You can't understand.” She sobs, “You can't know what it's _like_. To have everything you wanted stolen from you.”

“Can't I?” Geralt asks, “You know of the Witcher trials. I did not choose to be who I am. But I did choose to spare your life, and I would do it again.”

Yennefer's lovely makeup runs in smears down her cheeks. “I just wanted... I never _meant..._ ” Suddenly, she looks very young. Geralt almost feels sympathy within his chest, but he guesses that the feeling is closer to pity.

There's another scream from the cave, and Geralt tightens his hands into fists. “Let us go, Yennefer. Repay me now, and _let us go_.”

She drags a hand across her face, leaving a smear of kohl and blood. Finally, her shoulders slump, and she nods. The hate falls from her face, leaving numbness in its wake.

“I give you the djinn child, as payment for the debt I owe you.” Her voice is tiny. “And we shall not meet again. I have repaid you.”

Geralt feels the powerful shift in the air, the surge of magic that has been following for almost nine months retreating back into the ether. His chest relaxes minutely. “You have repaid me.” He agrees, and the contract is final.

“Fuck.” Jaskier whispers.

It's then that your final cry knifes through the air, followed by a beat of silence. Geralt runs, pushing past Jaskier. The bard stands over Yennefer, bristling.

“Any normal person would have let you die, you know.” He spits.

“I am aware.” Yennefer does not meet his eye.

“Not many of us are granted a chance at redemption. I hope you don't misuse yours.” Jaskier turns, then, and leaves the sorceress where she sits.

She hears the sound of an infant wailing, and closes her eyes. Fumbling, she retrieves a small vial, and crushes it in her hand. A portal appears beneath her, and she vanishes from the forest, and from your lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, a life debt isn't necessarily a solid canon thing in the Witcher, but it is mentioned more than once across the various media. In this universe, you can presume that it must be paid. As ever, none of this follows true canon! 
> 
> I also want to mention that I am a Yen stan -- I began this story ages ago, and wrote her more villainous than I kind of intended to. She's basically a plot device. A lot of my other fics involving Yennefer feature her as the MVP! I promise I am not anti-Yen!
> 
> There will be one more chapter after this. x


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You settle into your life with Geralt and your child, finding the forever that you'd promised one another.

“No! No, no, not the big scary kikimore _—aargh!_ ”

You look up from reading your letter, shaded from the summer sun beneath an apple tree. A small distance away from you, Geralt is fencing with your son, each of them wielding a stick. You smile fondly.

“I got you!” Tristan yells, and Geralt chuckles gruffly, falling flat on the ground. Tristan climbs atop him like a mighty conqueror. 

“That you did. And you went for the weak spot behind the legs, too. Nice work.” Geralt lifts his head. “But you should never let your guard down, just in case...” He roars, scooping the boy up beneath one burly arm at the same time as he rises. “I was only wounded! Now I have the brave knight in my clutches!”

“Pa _paaa_ ,” Tristan giggles, as Geralt holds him around his waist and swings him, “That’s not fair!”

“Kikimores and fathers don’t play fair.” Geralt says. He lifts your son into his arms properly, rucking his shirt up, pressing a noisy raspberry into his skin. Tristan shrieks and wriggles.

You shake your head, and return to the letter.

_My Dearest Mrs. Rivia,_

_I cannot believe it has been three months since I saw you last. Time has a way of moving in a blink, if you let it. I expect that when Jaskier and I come to visit at the end of summer, Tristan will have grown another three inches. How you keep up with a Witcher and a three-year-old, I’ll never know. I tip my hat to you._

_Jaskier and I have taken up with a delightful couple. They are wed, and share our values; Yvan and Ivora – roughly our age, merchants by trade. The mouth on Yvan, I tell you! I’ve never heard Jaskier make such noises. And Ivora has such a talent with her hands... anyway, they are a kind pair, and the break from travel is much appreciated. As much as I enjoy touring with Jaskier, it’s nice to take it slow occasionally._

_I met Tristan’s namesake recently! Jaskier was needed at Oxenfurt, and I accompanied him – because he’s likely to find himself in trouble when I do not, as you well know – and Triss Merigold was giving a guest lecture. By the gods, but she is a stunner. I introduced myself and thanked her for all that she did for us, and she hugged me and said it was destiny, not her. Humble woman; if I had even half her power, I’d never stop bragging about it. I understand your admiration for her._

_I’ve not forgotten that your two year anniversary is coming up. Gods, your betrothal story dwarfs mine in every way. I’ll never forget how Geralt’s face switched from ‘definitely going to be ill’ to ‘absolutely awe-struck’ in less than a second, when you walked the aisle. And Tristan screaming when you tried to say your vows! I have no idea where he got his dramatics from. I’m going to guess Geralt._

_I hope this letter finds you well, my dearest friend. I cannot wait to see you._

_All my love,_

_Verra_

You chuckle, and glance at the simple gold ring on your right hand. Beneath it nestles a thin band, inlaid with a beautifully cut emerald. Memories swirl in the eye of your mind.

\-------------

Geralt’s proposal had been awkward; he’d taken you out to a nearby lake for a picnic. The entire time, he was sweating and fidgeting so much that you’d thought he had terrible news. You were tired from waking up in the night to feed Tristan, and eventually you’d snapped at him when he refused to tell you what was wrong. He’d groused right back, your son had roused from slumber, and had begun to wail. 

“This isn’t how I meant to propose!” Geralt had blurted, and in the wake of the admission, you’d stared at one another wide-eyed.

“You... wanted to _propose?_ ” You’d squeaked, gently bouncing your babe.

Geralt looked sheepish. “For awhile now.” He’d reached into his pocket, and pulled out the ring. “Um. Marry me?”

It had been simple, ridiculous, and perfect. Your wedding had been a quiet affair, too; you invited Verra and Jaskier, of course, as well as Triss, the madame from Cidaris, and your elderly mother. Geralt had invited his brothers Eskel and Lambert, Witchers from the school of the wolf, as well as his mentor, Vesemir. Jaskier had officiated, and had managed not to cry very much.

All of the Witchers had been curious about your son, Vesemir especially. With your permission, he examined your one-year-old; he noted the pale green eyes that had a halo of gold, the white-blonde of his hair, and the fairness of his skin. He asked you about Tristan’s eating habits, and his growth. Truly, you had no other child to compare him to. To you, he seemed healthy and happy. To both you and Geralt, he was perfect.

Vesemir had asked for permission to visit from time to time, to check on Tristan as he grew, and you’d given it readily. Geralt had been quick to agree, too. You could see how clearly he admired the elder Witcher, and so you honoured that. Thus far, Tristan was no different to any other child his age.

\-------------

Your thoughts drift back to the present, as you fold the letter. Geralt is laying on his back, on the grass. Tristan is sprawled out beside him. They are pointing out clouds, imagining shapes, inventing stories.

How lucky you feel to have this quiet life, now.

Perhaps it is a balance, considering the turbulence of the year of Tristan’s birth. You lived through such chaos, and now you know peace. Geralt still walks the path, although with Vesemir’s blessing, his patrol is small and he is never more than a day or two from home. You wish he could settle and stay, but you understand. This is what he must do. He’s rarely away for longer than a week, and he brings home coin and game to eat.

The three of you occupy a small cottage on the outskirts of a quaint hamlet. The people are friendly towards Witchers – possibly because Geralt rid them of a banshee issue when you arrived – and they leave your little family alone. You’re wary of integrating too much, aware Tristan is different to other children, but he’s already made friends with the baker’s daughter. You can’t deny him company of his age. Honestly, the baker seems pleased to have you as a sitter. She’s a sweet woman, generous with her goods and her time. Much like the other occupants of the hamlet, she asked her questions about Geralt and Tristan long ago. Now she admits that having a Witcher nearby makes everyone feel somewhat secure.

You keep a small herd of sheep, selling their milk and wool. They are lazy things, never straying far from their pen, ever-watched by the shaggy-haired dog you bought to keep them safe. ‘Barky’, Tristan has named him, and the two of them are adorably close. Despite your protests, Barky sleeps on Tristan’s bed – and occasionally yours, if your son is proving too wriggly. You’ve accepted that your life is now at the mercy of a three-year-old and his dog.

When Geralt is home, he helps with household tasks and with the shearing and lambing. Domesticity suits him, although you don’t think he’d ever admit it. Some nights you sit in his lap by the fire and say nothing at all, communicating with simple touches and soft kisses. On rare occasions, Tristan sleeps over with the baker’s daughter. Those nights, you make use of every surface in the house, unable to get enough of your husband.

Your son does not want for clothes, nor toys, nor anything, really. You would work your fingers to the bone to provide for him, as would Geralt, but he has a small stream of people in his life that are constantly spoiling him. Triss visits from time to time – Tristan calls her ‘Auntie T’ – and always has something new to challenge his mind and fascinate him. She was touched when you honoured your promise, and you love sitting down to tea with her, to hear her court stories. She tells you Yennefer has upheld her promise; Triss keeps an eye on the sorceress. The last she heard, Yennefer was making better use of her power by teaching young apprentices.

Geralt’s brothers are just as doting. When they are near, they drop by with clothes or handmade toys, delighting in his joy. You have come to love Lambert and Eskel like they are your own brothers, and you are always happy to host them. When Vesemir visits, he brings books; illustrations of legendary beasts, and maps of old.

And of course, Verra and Jaskier – his rich aunt and uncle – are the worst offenders. You had to have a quiet conversation with them when they started talking about buying Tristan his own pony. But they remain generous, and you and Geralt are grateful to them.

When Geralt is away, you worry, but you keep to a routine for Tristan’s sake. He’s starting to ask questions, and you know there will come a time that you’ll need to have a complicated talk, but for now you try to hold on to moments like this. Moments of cloud-gazing, as chickens for dinner roast inside above the fire.

You rise, and wander over to your two boys, smiling down at them. “What have we here? Two layabouts?”

“There are dragons in the sky, Mama.” Tristan tells you, his eyes wide with a child’s sincerity.

“Bet you didn’t know that, hmm, love?” Geralt grins, all toothy.

“Dragons, you say?” You tilt your head upward, and then lay down beside your son. “Point them out?”

Tristan does so, and you squint, making appropriate sounds. You ask him what he knows about dragons, and he rattles off a list of facts that has you smirking. He is his father’s son, truly. When he tires of the clouds and gets restless – as three-year-olds are wont to do – he gets up, calling for Barky.

Geralt sits up, and you do the same. The two of you watch your son chase the dog around, throwing a knotted piece of rope for him. You rest your head against Geralt’s large shoulder.

“Verra and Jaskier are visiting in a few weeks.” You remind him.

“Hmm.” He runs his fingers through your hair. “They’ll want to babysit, I presume?”

“Of course. You know how they adore him.”

Geralt grins. “So I’ll have my wife all to myself some evenings, very soon. That is what you’re saying?”

You nudge him. “Maybe.” But your eyes are sparkling playfully.

“Can they get here sooner?”

Lacing your hand with his, you laugh. “You have me forever, darling. There is no rush.”

And in your little patch of paradise, there never is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me through this story! It was a wild ride, and there are probably plot holes, but I am very glad to call it finished for now. Told you I'd make it a happy ending. :)


End file.
